by S W Vaughn
Simple coincidence had placed him in the area when the traitor took flight. A skilled assassin, Shonen was never without a knife or a blade at the ready — and when Shiro had attempted to restrain him, he’d sustained a six-inch gash across his right collarbone, a strike meant to slit his throat.
This detail, along with one other, he would not share with Angel.
Before Angel could comment, two figures parted from the mob and stopped in front of their table. The bearded, smiling man in black silk lined with red was Ken Serizawa, head of Pandora’s security. Piper, the tall red-haired man beside him, had been under Serizawa’s care and training since childhood.
“Konbanwa, Shiro-san,” Serizawa said with a quick bow, his robust voice rising above the incessant buzz of the crowd. “Who is your friend?”
“Where have you been tonight, Ken? Did you not see the fight?” He shook his head in mock sympathy. “You are a worthless protector.”
“Perhaps. But I am an excellent poker player.” Grinning, Serizawa regarded the other fighter. “Ah. Now I see — you must be the esteemed Angel.” At once appearing somber, he bowed deeply. “Hajimemashite, Angel-san. My name is Ken Serizawa. Yoroshiku. I am at your service.”
Wearing a confused expression, Angel stood and returned the gesture. “Kochirakoso, Serizawa-san. Thank you … but, at my service? I’m afraid I don’t understand why you show me this honor.”
“Your lieutenant has told me much about you, young one,” the man said. “As he serves you, so do I.”
“Oh.” Flashing a half-smile, Angel said, “Well, I hope he hasn’t told you too much, or you might change your mind.”
Serizawa nodded, indicating the man beside him. “This is Piper.”
“Konbanwa, Piper-san. Dozo yoroshiko.” Angel bowed, but the man regarded him blankly and said nothing.
“Er … hello, Piper.” He tried holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you?”
Still, Piper remained silent.
Shiro couldn’t help laughing. When Angel whirled to face him, he said, “Piper does not speak, my friend, no matter what language you try to converse in. He is mute.”
“Oh.” Angel’s voice dropped, and he turned back to the taller man. “Sumimasen. I am sorry.”
Piper blinked, and his eyes flicked to Serizawa.
“He wants to know if you are sorry he is mute, or sorry for speaking to him,” Serizawa said.
Angel’s mouth fell open. “How … what … he said all that?” he sputtered.
Serizawa laughed, and Piper smiled along with him. “Indeed he did.”
“Well.” Angel regarded him with a critical eye. “In that case, I’m sorry to have underestimated you, and I assure you I won’t make that mistake in the future.”
The smile grew. Piper nodded once.
“He accepts your apology.” Serizawa faced Shiro then and said, “Where is your sempai? I had hoped to speak with him tonight.”
“He is not coming.” Concern furrowed Shiro’s brow. Angel’s lieutenant, Jenner, played many roles in the organization. He had served Tomi Harada, the leader of House Pandora, for many years, and Shiro worked under him in the legal world as an apprentice psychiatrist. Today at the office, his sempai had seemed preoccupied, an odd contrast for a man who possessed only two emotional states: furious and terrifying.
A frown tugged at Serizawa’s perpetual smile. He was the only person on the island that housed Pandora who looked forward to a visit from Jenner. “Is everything all right?”
“As right as ever, I suppose,” he said. “I am not aware of anything unusual.”
“Well, perhaps I will call him later,” Serizawa said. His grin restored, he clapped Piper on the shoulder. “Come, my friend. Let us pretend to guard this place while we play cards. Oyasumi nasai, Shiro. Angel.”
Angel watched them leave, and resumed his seat shaking his head. “Now there’s something I’ve never considered.”
“What is that?”
“Someone calling Jenner just to talk.” Angel’s tone was light, but Shiro sensed the tension running through him. The relationship between he and Jenner had not begun on the best of terms. “So,” Angel said after a moment. “You’re fighting Nails, huh?”
The younger man was attempting to change the subject, but for Shiro, the upcoming fight was no more pleasant to contemplate. He had no wish to face one of House Prometheus’s steroid-enhanced thugs — especially after he’d been out of the circuit for months, recovering from a vicious beating that nearly killed him. “Yes,” he said with a groan. “How fortunate I am.”
“Well, do me a favor and kick his ass for me.” His friend’s green eyes flashed steel as he spoke. Angel had a personal score to settle with the House Prometheus lieutenant.
Recalling hearing of the incident that occurred between them while he was hospitalized, Shiro frowned. “I will try, but it has been so long since I have competed, that you may have to seek your own revenge — and avenge me as well.”
“You worry too much.” Angel grinned. “Prometheus fights without honor, remember? You told me that yourself. And besides, I know something you don’t. Something that guarantees you’re going to win.”
“Oh, really. And what might that be?”
“I bet a ton of money on you.”
Shiro glared at him.
Angel’s lips twitched only slightly. “No pressure, though. Just do your best.”
His attempt at remaining straight-faced lasted all of thirty seconds before Angel cracked a smile. Shiro tried to rebuff him, but the man’s mirth was contagious. He snorted, and soon was laughing along with him.
“Shiro. A word, please.”
The voice was just behind him. He turned to find Kamen, one of the other Pandora fighters, looking stern and slightly uncomfortable. “What is it?” he said.
Kamen frowned. “In private.”
That did not bode well. Private matters often had nothing to do with the organization, but rather with the Harada business empire — a much larger and vastly more dangerous network than any of the other Houses knew. Though Tomi Harada had recruited some fighters native to New York since joining the organization as Pandora, a few had come here from Japan and the existing business. Himself and Kamen were among the latter.
“Very well,” he said at last, and turned back to Angel. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
Angel glanced at the other man and raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. I’m certain it is nothing,” he lied. Business matters were not discussed with the organization, particularly gaijin. “I will return soon.”
“All right. Stay out of trouble, man.”
“Of course.”
He followed Kamen through the crowd waiting for the next match to begin, and was ushered into a small, unoccupied study off the main room. Kamen closed the door behind them, and the first thing he said was, “It is not what you think, Shiro, though you’ll likely wish it was.”
The words were spoken with regret, and they worried him more than the request for a private conversation. “What’s happened?”
“It is not what has happened, but what will.” Kamen closed his eyes briefly. “I have come with orders from Harada-sama,” he said. “You are to lose your match tonight.”
“What?” he blurted.
“Sumimasen, Shiro.” If Kamen hadn’t appeared genuinely distressed, he would have taken a swing at him. “It must be over in less than five minutes, and you must lose. I am certain you know why.”
He did know why — but that knowledge failed to improve anything about this. On occasion, Tomi Harada would instruct one of his fighters to throw a match in order to profit from a large, guaranteed bet. Shiro had never agreed with the practice, though he could not stop it. But he had never been told to do this.
Throughout his extensive time in the ring, independent of the tournaments, he’d lost only three fights. One of them, against Angel, he might have lost intentionally — at least, on a subconscious level.
But those circumstances had been unique.
Now, he could think of only one reason his shujin would demand this.
“Harada has lost faith in my abilities,” he said with rising anger. “He believes me no longer capable of winning, no longer a sure bet. Tell him I will—”
“No, Shiro.” Kamen held up a hand. “He gave me no explanation. Perhaps that is why, but it does not matter. This is an official order,” he said. “I am truly sorry. But you must lose.”
Shiro gritted his teeth to hold back the cutting remark on his tongue. Kamen was merely a messenger, carrying out an order of his own. And they were all required to obey Harada.
No matter how wrong his orders were.
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"I know what you did. Murderer."
When Celine Bauman gets the anonymous text, she knows exactly what it means. Years ago, she made a horrible mistake that led to someone's death. She never told a soul what happened. But someone knows, and they're going to make her pay in blood.
Unfortunately, she has no idea who that someone is.
After the first contact, Celine's world is quickly torn apart. As if the threatening texts aren't enough, her old friends start dying under mysterious circumstances. Then her ex, who's been out of her life for years, resurfaces in a shocking way -- and she's kept secrets from him, too.
Secrets she may be forced to tell, if she wants her daughter to live.
“Extremely hard to put down … did not see the twists coming.”
--on The Life She Stole
Prologue
She turns when I call her name. She’s surprised and a little confused, and there’s a puzzled expression on her face that’s attempting to be pleasant as I walk toward her. She’s trying to remember how she knows me, or maybe if she knows me.
Well, it has been a long time.
“Hello,” she says uncertainly when I stop. It’s nearly Labor Day and there aren’t many people in this part of the park, so she’s probably suspicious. And she should be — of me, at least. My purpose here isn’t friendly.
I don’t say hello back, and she frowns. “Um, I’m sorry, but …”
Forcing a sudden smile, I give her my name and hold a hand out. “We went to school together,” I say.
“Oh, that’s right!” Relief spreads across her face as she shakes my hand. I’m glad she’s not a hugger. “Now I remember,” she says. “How have you been?”
“Fine,” I tell her, “just fine. How about you?”
She launches into a babbling diatribe about her life, her job, how wonderful everything has been since school. I’m not really listening. It hasn’t been wonderful for me, not at all, and she doesn’t deserve all of this happiness. But that’s okay.
I’m about to take it all away from her. The only shame is that she’ll never know why. She’s a means to an end. And that end is coming for someone who really deserves it. But things won’t be so easy for the woman who stole my life from me.
I have much bigger plans for her.
She’s looking at me, and I realize she must’ve asked me a question. I have no idea what it was. “I’m sorry, what was that last thing?” I say.
“I said, do you hike?” She points at the boots she was lacing when I called out to her. “I’m about to head up to the Sycamore Cliff. The trail’s pretty mild, and there’s a fantastic view from the top. Did you want to come with me? We can talk about the good old days,” she says with a grin.
I look from her to the nearby mountain towering above, imagining the rocky cliffs and the sheer drop from the top. Imagining how she’ll look when I push her off, the shock and dismay on her pretty face as she plummets to her death. And I smile.
“I’d love to,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 1
It’s the first day of kindergarten, and my daughter is so excited I’m afraid she might pop like a soap bubble.
Alyssa practically vibrates in her booster seat as we pull into the parking lot of Wolfsbrook Elementary. She’s four and small for her age, turning five in October, but she’s not underdeveloped or stunted. Just naturally tiny. My little dark-haired, green-eyed pixie, with her button nose and her smile that lights up a room. She charms everyone she meets, so I’m not worried that she’ll have trouble adjusting to full-time school.
I’m the one who’s having adjustment issues. Even though I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, my eyes sting a little as I pounce on an empty parking space and turn off the car. This is it. My baby is taking her first step into the long tides of growing up.
I catch myself envisioning what a wreck I’ll be when she graduates high school and force the thought away. There’s still plenty of time before that.
And I have other things to cry about today.
“We’re here!” Alyssa calls out as she unbuckles her seat belt. “Can I open the door by myself, Mommy?”
I flash a smile over the seat at her. “Yes, but wait until I get to your side of the car, okay?” I say. “There’s a lot of traffic here right now.”
“Okay. I’ll wait.”
I disengage the safety locks, grab my purse and get out. I’ve drilled traffic safety into her from basically the day she took her first steps, because she’s so tiny. If she was in the path of a car, any car, the driver would never see her. The thought of it gives me nightmares.
I’m amazed at the amount of activity here this morning. When Alyssa and I visited the school last week to see her classroom and meet Mrs. Jocasta, her teacher, there were only a handful of cars in the lot and none in the curved drive that runs in front of the building. Now the drive is packed with bumblebee-yellow buses, and the parking lot is crammed full, with spillover onto the shoulder of the main road and the side streets. The first day of school is a madhouse of kids catching up with friends and showing off new clothes and gear, while parents and school staff race to corral the excitement and direct the flow inside.
Of course, it would’ve been the same way when I went to school here, but I never noticed the traffic or the adults. I was just another child in the throng.
So was Rosalie Phillips.
As I look toward the entrance and the bustle of little people swarming the sidewalks, I actually see her for just an instant as she was in second grade — her dark hair in pigtails, the gap between her front teeth that by high school would be corrected through two embarrassing middle-school years of braces, the sundresses she wore so often, even in winter over a turtleneck and thick tights. We hadn’t been best friends or anything, but she was in my grade and I knew her.
“Mommy, can I open the door yet?”
Alyssa’s voice, muffled inside the car, startles me. The vision of little Rosalie fades as I hurry around the back and stand just behind her door. “Okay, baby. Come on out,” I say.
She pops the handle on the first try and scrambles out, tugging her brand new My Little Pony backpack along with her. Then she shuts the door, threads one arm through the backpack strap, and struggles to get the other one. Soon she’s turning in circles like a dog chasing its tail, trying to catch the elusive second strap with her free hand.
I hold back a laugh. “Want some help with that, munchkin?”
“I can do it,” she says with the supreme confidence of the very young. Three more tries, and she finally manages to slip her arm behind the strap, beaming up at me. “See?”
“Yes, you can,” I say to Little Miss Independent.
I take her hand, and we start across the parking lot toward the slight, grassy rise that leads to the main drive. A thirty-something woman in a safety-orange vest, holding a red stop sign on a stick, stands on the opposite side of the crosswalk in front of the line of buses. She crosses when she sees us coming and smiles broadly at Alyssa.
My daughter returns the smile with a thousand extra watts. “Hi! I’m Alyssa Dawn Bauman,” she says. “I go to this school now, like my mommy did.”
I resist the urge to remind her not to give strangers her full name. People in uniform are the exception, and this crossing guard has a badge.
“Well, hello there, Alyssa Dawn Bauman,” the crossing guard says. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ms. Fischer.”
“Hi, Ms. Fischer!”
The crossing guard laughs, then grabs the silver whistle hanging from the cord around her neck and holds the stop sign out toward the traffic. As we cross behind her, Alyssa tugs my hand and points at something with her free hand. “Who’s that, Mommy?” she whispers loudly. “Is she famous?”
I follow her gesture to the waist-high, wrought iron fence that runs from the back wall of the school building across the yard to the end of the main drive. There’s a lone woman standing behind the fence — late twenties like me, rail-thin and dressed in a white silk something that looks like a robe, with strappy black heels and a huge pair of dark sunglasses over full lips painted blood-red. Loosely curled, platinum-blond hair tumbles past her shoulders, and a cigarette smolders in one slender hand.
She’s just standing there, staring at the children on the sidewalk.
Something about her sets off a low-grade alarm in my gut. Maybe it’s because she’s wearing a bathrobe and heels in public — odd, to say the least — or because she’s hanging around an elementary school without a child, smoking a cigarette, and she obviously doesn’t work here. This picture doesn’t add up.
“I don’t think she’s famous, honey,” I say as I hurry Alyssa along. “Come on, let’s go find your teacher.”
Once we get inside the building, my faint feeling of unease dissolves. Alyssa remembers the way to her classroom faster than I do, and she tugs me excitedly down one hallway after another without pause until we reach the kindergarten wing, where the teachers stand outside their doors to greet the newest students.