by Jc Emery
Almost reluctantly, I stand, finding myself on wobbly footing. The young agent helps me out of the apartment and down the two flights of stairs to the crooked sidewalk below on the outskirts of the Quarter. Another agent, older with graying hair, helps Becca.
I make my descent slowly, mindful of my wounded thigh. I breathe a sigh of relief seeing Becca amble down without issue. She keeps her arms folded over her chest and her head down. I know this can’t have been easy on her, but at least she’s in one piece.
People run from one end of the building to the other at speeds I can’t manage on my best days. Yellow caution tape secures the perimeter.
The agent, whose name I’ve forgotten already, brings me to one of the two ambulances at the scene. The EMT on duty sits me on the bumper of the vehicle and proceeds to ask me a thousand inane questions. I answer what I can, letting the rest fade into a low murmur in the back of my thoughts.
I can’t find Chase anywhere in the crowd. In the other ambulance, Becca sits hunched over, being attended to by two EMTs. I catch her traveling gaze but only for a moment. She shakes her head slightly and turns away. One of the paramedics has her lift her arms and legs, checking for mobility. Aside from a few scratches, she appears to be fine. Mad as hell—and who can blame her—but fine.
“How is she?” I ask the paramedic attending to me.
He gives me a gentle look and says, “I have it on good authority she asked the same thing about you. And don’t worry—she appears to be fine physically. She’s fared better than most kidnapping victims we find.”
A weight lifts from my shoulders, knowing Becca is okay. Even if she’ll never speak to me again, at least I know she’s okay and she’s safe.
Right when the EMT and I fall into a comfortable rapport—with him asking the questions with little expectation of an answer and me trying to focus the best I can—a loud boom rings out, followed by the terrifying succession of loud pops and the telltale wheezing sound of bullets flying through the air.
I flinch and crawl backward into the ambulance, seeking shelter. An awful, strangled cry comes from the crowd of agents as they duck as one unified body while a few, who appear to be higher-ranking, shout commands at their charges in an effort to locate the shooter. Toward the middle, one agent holds his thigh and throws his head back, cursing in ways I hadn’t known were possible.
“Don’t move,” the EMT says as he gathers an orange plastic board and a red bag with a white cross on it and rushes to the injured agent.
Nervously, I peer out, spying the men and women in the signature FBI vests as they direct their guns toward the sky in search of the shooter. Another deafening boom sounds, rattling the ground, sending civilian and lawperson alike running frantically.
The civilian cries strike a chord of panic in my gut as smoke rises from behind the centuries-old brick building. The earth rumbles and the smoke rises, creating a cloud overhead, like some kind of bomb has gone off. I wrap my arms around my torso, trying to block out the horror and terror of what may come next. Taking several deep breaths, I force myself to calm down.
Looking up and out of the ambulance, I watch as the people scatter in fear. There is a sort of chaotic structure to it all. The civilians run as far away from the area as possible, blocking traffic when need be. The streets clog, and soon a traffic jam forms from the terrified masses. The first responders—ranging from FBI agents to city officers and EMTs—move in synchronization in groups of five and six as they survey the area on full alert.
But behind the fleeing masses and those who’ve sworn to protect them is one man. He stands still, his shoulders straight, and his tan skin glowing in the midday sun.
“Victor,” I say on a strangled breath, feeling my gut lurch on sight.
I look around for someone to tell, but there’s no one. The EMTs are attending to the injured agents, and Chase is still nowhere in sight. I scoot to the edge of the ambulance in search of a familiar face and come up empty. For the first time since Chase found me, I realize that my parents aren’t here, nor are his. The only thought that comforts me is knowing Chase wouldn’t leave them in harm’s way.
Down the street, behind the bustle of people, Victor remains stoic. Though his face remains passive, I know him better than to think he’s bored with the scene before him. It’s utter chaos, a result of his orchestration no doubt. It’s awfully smug of him to stand there, nearly in plain sight—though I’m not surprised. He would be one to enjoy his handiwork.
The more I watch him, the less frightened I am at his presence. I remind myself that though he might be an awful man, he is still just a man. He is not an inhuman force who cannot be hurt. He strides around town like he’s invincible, even if he isn’t, while being flanked by his security detail.
He’s alone now.
The thought strikes me that, for the first time since meeting Victor, he is completely and utterly alone. No men flank his sides. He’s not in his own establishment where he needn’t worry about security. And the men and women of law enforcement aren’t on his side for once.
They’re on mine.
Though I’m exhausted and worn down, I find myself emboldened by Victor’s audacity. Carefully, I slide out of the ambulance and cross the street toward where Victor stands.
I rub my hands on my pants to rid them of the sweat that’s accumulated. It strikes me as I walk with as much speed as I’m capable of, that I’m without any kind of weapon. I don’t have my knife, having lost it somewhere along the way, likely in the cabin. I don’t have my gun, either. When I surrendered myself, I chose to leave it behind. Still, I rush toward Victor, grateful for my lack of stature as I’m able to move through the crowd less noticeably than if I were taller.
Up ahead, I spot the perfect target. He’s wearing a rumpled suit with a gold badge clipped at his belt. He’s bent at the waist with his butt on the curb, his head in his hands. Blood streams slowly down the side of his face, getting caught up in his long fingers. A day’s worth of stubble lines his jaw. By all accounts, he looks worn down and injured. But most importantly, the holster for his gun is unclipped, and he’s set it down beside himself on the curb.
Passing by a makeshift medical stand, I grab a full bottle of hand sanitizer and a thick gray rescue blanket and keep walking, all the while forcing tears to my eyes. I approach the man from the side and fake a trip, dropping the blanket on his shoulder, covering his side with the open gun holster. I bend down, placing my empty hand on his shoulder and meet his eyes. I notice immediately that while he isn’t quite handsome, his face holds a certain charm.
“I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” I ask, bending further.
Under the blanket, I slide the gun out, setting it in the blanket, and replace it with the bottle of sanitizer. With any luck, he won’t notice the switch before I get out of Dodge.
He nods his head and says, “Yeah. Um. This area is restricted. You can’t be here, miss.”
I nod my head, apologize frantically, and then collect my blanket with the stolen firearm and scurry away. Though I could swear my heart stopped beating, the switch took less than five seconds. That’s the key to pick-pocketing—timing. Not that I’ll have any further use for this knowledge. I’m reformed. But this is an emergency situation, and I’ve got no time for ethics.
I wait at the edge of the crowd, avoiding Victor’s gaze. As the traffic, both foot and auto, begins to lighten, Victor lets out an appreciative sigh and turns to walk away. I follow him through the throng of people, keeping my distance the best I can without losing him. We walk for blocks before he leads me down a dead end, far away from the crowd. It isn’t until I turn the corner into the empty alley that I realize I’ve walked into a trap.
“You could have been safe. Let me get away. Never seen or heard from me again,” he says as he turns around, hands still in his pockets. I hold the blanket tightly to my abdomen, unwilling to show the gun until I know what’s in his pockets.
“That’s a fine rescue blanket you
have there, Shelby. What are you going to do, smother me with it?”
“Trust me, if I could, I would,” I say, fighting to keep the tremor out of my voice.
Victor removes his hands from his pockets. My chest tightens, but he removes nothing. He merely places his hands on his hips in disapproval.
“You stupid bitch,” he says shrilly. “You know who I am.”
He takes a few large steps toward me. Instinctively, I reach inside the blanket and grab the gun, letting the blanket drop to the ground. Keeping Chase’s warning from our first day together in mind, I unlock the safety and point the gun at Victor’s heart.
Victor takes a step back and teasingly throws his arms in the air. “Don’t shoot,” he says with a smirk.
“I pulled a gun on a man once who I had no intention of shooting—or perhaps twice. I’ve learned my lesson,” I snap. “I’m not letting you get away. I don’t care if I have to keep you here all night. You’re going to pay for what you’ve done.”
“And what about what you’ve done? You’re not exactly innocent yourself, Shelby.”
I tighten my grip on the trigger, coming terribly close to firing.
“You didn’t give me another choice. Why did you do that?”
“Because I can,” he says, sounding bored.
“But the diamond. . .” I trail off.
“Is useless,” Victor finishes for me.
Chase was right. It was never about the diamond.
“But that little scene in the Quarter would have been excellent blackmail.”
The sounds of impending footfalls put me on edge. Due to our position in the alley, I’m unable to keep an eye on who’s coming and on Victor at the same time. With panic fluttering in my stomach and clenching in my chest, I take my chances, keeping the gun pointed at Victor.
I hear his breathing, somehow instinctively knowing it’s him, before I see him. His rich scent of soap and sweat fills the air as his tired pants remind me of our times together. Chase comes to a halt behind me, and I relax only to realize that he’s, once again, found me in a compromising position. This time it’s with a stolen police-issued gun. Tears burn at my eyes and spill down my cheeks.
“Baby, put down the gun,” Chase gently urges.
“I can’t let him go,” I whimper-cry. My hands shake as I let out a shuddered sob. Soon, the tears overtake my vision, and I’m unable to hold the gun steady. “He needs to pay.”
Somewhere in the back of my mind I realize I don’t need to do this. I could put down the gun, let Chase take care of this, and this would all be over. But I can’t get myself to move. After everything Victor has done to hurt me, and especially Becca, I can’t just let him go.
“Just give me the gun, Shelby. He isn’t getting away. I promise.”
My tears break into heavy sobs as I realize what I’m about to do. I lift my pointer finger from the trigger and move to hand the gun to Chase.
Just a few months ago, I was just a girl who didn’t know where she wanted her life to go. I had little direction beyond Saturday night and even less determination to find any. I had always flirted with danger but hadn’t experienced any real threat at that point.
And then everything changed. Lured in by a handsome smile, false kindness, and a mysterious draw, I fell into Victor’s world, hook, line, and sinker. Everything fell apart, and just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, it did.
I just want to go back to being the girl I was before everything went to hell. And though I don’t know if that’s even possible, I’m going to try. And trying begins with making the right decision.
As I hand the gun over to Chase, Victor moves quickly, shoving his hand into his pocket. He pulls out a small, dark green item with a silver circle at one end.
Chase grips my arm with a ferocity I didn’t know he was capable of and tugs me backwards several feet. My entire body aches, most especially my injured leg, but I don’t fight it. Slow as I may be, eventually my mind registers the item as a grenade.
We back up into the desolate street as Victor approaches us. Chase wraps one arm around my midsection, and the other points the gun at Victor over my shoulder. Chase is fast, but Victor is faster as he pulls the metal clip from the end and tosses the grenade in the air.
Despite having a loaded gun, Chase is forced to lower the piece as we turn and retreat. We make it out of the immediate danger zone just barely in time.
The grenade explodes behind us, sending us off our feet and into the air. Shards of wood from the nearby stack of crates fly at us, smoke billows from the ground, covering us in filth, and my vision blurs.
The next thing I know, I’m curled against Chase on the hot concrete. The back of my head throbs, my entire body aches, and my breathing is shallow. I blink twice and crane my sore neck to look at Chase. For the first time since the explosion, I see that his eyes are closed and blood is collecting behind his head. An intense sickness washes over me. I climb up his limp body and cry into his chest.
“No, no, no. I love you,” I scream into his chest.
I lay a hand on the Kevlar vest, eyeing it mercilessly. He’d donned the vest to protect himself from injury but not a helmet, which is what he needed in this situation. I continue to shout at him, though I don’t think he can hear me. I tell him I love him and he’s stupid for not protecting his head. I say everything and anything that comes to mind just in case he catches even a single word.
“You can’t leave me. Not yet.”
Surprising me, he coughs, flutters his eyes, and winces. Every movement he makes lightens my spirits just a little, telling me he’s going to be okay.
“I can’t leave you?” he says, nearly a whisper.
I lean in, brushing my lips against his, whispering, “Never.”
A small smile radiates from the corner of his mouth. “And you love me, even if I have brain damage?” he asks.
Sirens sound in the distance, growing closer as FBI agents rush down the alleyway. I ignore it all, knowing in my heart that Mr. Funny is going to be all right.
“I do,” I say.
He guffaws at the term, struggling to focus on my face. “And you don’t listen. I told you not to rush this,” he scolds, giving a masculine pout.
“I can’t help it,” I tease, smoothing a strand of hair that’s fallen over his eyes. “And you love me even in an orange jump suit?” As I say the words, the agents descend and the reality of my situation hits home. All the love in the world isn’t going to get me out of this scot-free.
“Hey,” he defends weakly, “I think you can pull off orange.”
The ambulance arrives, separating us and checking us each over. Thankfully neither of us are found to have obvious major injuries, though the EMTs ask about my leg and give Chase an annoyed look when I explain how he played doctor at the cabin. There’s no sense in lying, I figure. If I’m going to be good enough for Chase, I had better get comfortable telling the truth.
Eventually, agents begin asking me questions I’m not prepared to answer and, in all honesty, I’ll never have a good answer for. Thankfully they determine that we should be taken to the nearby hospital and evaluated. One of the agents gives me an apologetic look before he handcuffs me to the gurney they’ve loaded me on. I let the tears splash down my cheeks with abandon. No use in pretending like I’m not terrified right now.
“Miss Brignac, I’m Federal Agent Brown. You’re in serious trouble, having committed a slew of felonies over the last few days. You do understand that we can’t just let you walk away from this.”
I nod my head and sniffle. “I understand.”
The agent explains I was caught on tape stealing the diamond. In addition to that, they have me on tape accidentally waving the gun as I fled the scene in the Quarter just before meeting Chase. He lists off a few more charges, but I’ve stopped listening. I’m trying really hard not to pity myself since this is my fault, but I can’t help it. This entire situation has ended in disaster.
Then it strikes me�
��I know aspects of Victor’s business that could really help them nail down the crooked cops. If I play my hand just right, they may even drop the charges against me.
Chase fights off the paramedics attempting to apply a neck brace just long enough to give me a reassuring smile. Clearly thinking the same thing, he nods his head. “Do it, baby.”
Then he lays back and allows the paramedics to do their job as they strap him down and load him into another ambulance. I crack a hint of a smile and nod my head, letting love and determination guide me.
“I’d like to cut a deal,” I say.
As they strap a neck brace on me and secure me to the gurney, I mentally flip through wedding dress options in my head—Chase is so marrying me even if he doesn’t know it yet—and I give the agent just a few tidbits of Victor’s business to get the ball rolling.
EPILOGUE
Shelby
I just want to get to Chase.
IT’S BEEN A long day at the café, but the crowds are welcome. They let my mind slip into my work and away from what today is. Friday.
It’s the end of hurricane season, and the forecast is clear of any major storms. It looks like the gulf won’t be throwing us for a late-season loop. Thank God. When the weather is good, like it is now, breezy and warm with little rain, folks come in droves to the little seaside café, Stormy’s. There’s something about Florida after all the storms have passed—it’s almost as beautiful as New Orleans is all of the time. But I’m partial.
As much as I’m loving my little life detour on the Florida coast, I miss my home. I miss the food and the people, not just my people but the city’s people. I miss the sounds of the city and the hustle and bustle. Folks say the South moves slow, and so it does, but there’s an energy in New Orleans that would be impossible to replicate.
Once Chase nails down Victor, I should be able to go home. And it can’t be soon enough. I miss the food (no really, I love food), and my family. But what I’m really missing like mad is Chase. He’s still shiny and new, and every other weekend just isn’t enough. Thankfully, though, this is one of those weekends.