Decadent: The Devil’s Due

by Charles, Eva

  I ease up on the pedal, but I’m still twitchy.

  We’re alone on the road, cloaked in darkness, with the streetlights few and far between. It’s a lonely part of the drive. Fits my sullen mood perfectly.

  “Home must have been a real sucky place,” Trippi says, needling me.

  I liked him better when he didn’t talk.

  “That’s the only reason anyone would go there looking for answers. People who have happy childhoods never go looking for anything.”

  “My mother wasn’t as batshit crazy as the crown prince, but she had her own special charm. If that’s what you’re askin’.”

  “She pass?”

  “No. But I haven’t seen her in years. She hasn’t had any influence over my life since I was a teenager. Maybe before.”

  “Sure she has. She’s got a stranglehold on you. Pulling your strings from afar. Why else would we be going to Digger’s Hollow?”

  Fuck you.

  We ride in silence for another hour, but it’s not quiet inside my head. There’s nothing in Digger’s Hollow. I’ll ride by the old trailer, if it’s still there. Park across the street and let the memories of my mother chasin’ rich men convince me that after all is said and done, I’m just like her.

  Only I didn’t chase Gray, looking for a payday. I didn’t chase him at all.

  Without warning, I pull into a path on the highway, where police officers set up speed traps, and change direction.

  “What the hell?” Trippi hollers. “What are you doing?”

  “I need answers. Apparently, they’re in Charleston. Plug it into the navigation.”

  46

  Gray

  There’s a faint scratching sound outside my office door. Almost like a small animal. I continue to listen, but I don’t hear it anymore.

  Jesus, I need some sleep. But I’m not ready to go up and lie in my bed alone, with nothing to do but jerk off while I think about Delilah and wait for her to make a decision. Fuck that. It doesn’t matter what she decides. I’m not going to walk away that easily. I’ll fight to my death to convince her to give us a chance.

  I get up and pour a bourbon. The club closed two hours ago, and other than me, the only person still here is the security guard.

  There’s that noise again. I take my gun from the desk drawer and go to the door, opening it cautiously, but there’s nothing.

  When I step out into Foxy’s area, nothing seems out of place there either. I slide my gun into my back waistband, and rifle through a stack of folders on Foxy’s desk, until I find the one I need.

  As I turn to go back into my office, I notice a shadow on the floor that shouldn’t be there. It’s too big for an animal.

  I reach for my weapon, but a gun’s wedged into the back of my head before I can grab it.

  “Hands out in front of you,” the man emerging from the shadows barks. He’s of medium build, dark hair, dark clothing, and English is not his primary language.

  I’ve never seen him before.

  He trains a gun on my chest as he approaches.

  When the assailant behind me moves for my weapon, I twist free and dive to the ground, pulling him with me as a shield. Just as I grab my gun, a bullet from behind shatters my shoulder, but before I’m restrained, I get a shot off that kills the bastard from the shadow. Three intruders. One down. Two to go.

  “We will kill you if you do not cooperate.” The smaller of the two glowers at me with nothing but hate in his eyes.

  Another man skulks from somewhere in the shadows. He’s wearing a Yankees baseball cap, and carrying a large duffel. Four intruders, not three. One down. Three to go. I repeat this to myself, so I don’t lose track of the moving pieces. Unlike the others, the Yankee’s fan is hesitant. He seems to be here of his own volition, but he’s not brandishing a weapon.

  No one bothers to check to see if their friend is still breathing. They don’t even glance in his direction. They’re trained killers.

  “What do you want?” I demand, as they cuff me. My voice is louder and sterner than my position warrants. The response is a swift smack in the head with the butt of a gun. Not hard enough to take me down, but hard enough to make me see stars.

  I resist as they bind my legs together and drag me into the office. The taller of the men squeezes my injured shoulder to subdue me. Fuck! It hurts like a sonofabitch, but I continue to struggle, because once I’m in that room, there’s nowhere for me to go, and my chances only get worse.

  One shuts the door, and the other two shove me onto the conference table. I wriggle to free myself, as they secure me with straps to the table. But they’re quick and well-trained and I’m screwed. These are not run-of-the-mill burglars. Mercenaries or soldiers is my best guess.

  They grunt and mutter a few words to each other in English, nothing that gives their purpose away. They’re Amadis, I suspect, but it’s a mistake to jump to conclusions too quickly.

  I don’t shout for help. It’s a sure sign of weakness. Besides, they wouldn’t have reached my office unless they took down the security guard first. There’s no one to help.

  I’ve been trained for this moment. I’m not sure it makes it any easier, but at least I’m not shitting myself—yet.

  They make no effort to conceal their faces, and they don’t blindfold me—because they don’t plan on me being alive to identify them.

  “Where is your whore?”

  They have to be Amadis. They’re talking about Delilah. No one else would ask for her in that way.

  “I don’t understand.” I respond in a colloquial dialect often used by the Amadi people, to see if I’m correct. The recognition on their faces is my answer, but one of them is stupid enough to respond.

  “Delilah Porter. Where is she?”

  A boost of adrenaline floods in, and my heart races at her name. But I need to stay in control. “She’s a bitch,” I say with some distaste. “We had a fight on the way back from Amidane. She took off and I haven’t seen her. Maybe she’s at home.”

  With any luck, she and Trippi are tucked away in rural Mississippi.

  “She is not at home.”

  The gun comes down hard on my face, and within seconds my left eye is so swollen I can’t see out of it. I need to get word to her. To Trippi.

  “Where is she?” the shorter of the three screams into my face.

  The pain in my shoulder is lessening. I’m coasting on adrenaline. “If you release me, I’ll help you find her.”

  The gun comes down on my right cheek in response, and the pain is excruciating.

  “Where is the whore?”

  “Let me call her.” I know that neither Delilah or Trippi can be tracked by their cell phones. It’s a safety precaution. There is no immediate response from my captors, but I see their eyes dart about in an unspoken language.

  While I wait, I hear baseball guy tussling with the zippers on a bag behind me, but I can’t see what he’s doing. “You’ll never find her without my help,” I say calmly, even though I’m holding back panic.

  “If you do not tell us where she is, we will kill you.”

  You’re going to kill me anyway. They haven’t entirely shut down my offer to call her. But I’m not hopeful.

  While I try to think of some way to warn Delilah, my brothers’ faces appear inside my head. We’re playing pool, not far from where I am right now.

  I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to find out about my covert life like this. I hate that you have to plan another funeral.

  We’re still playing pool when Delilah’s beautiful face comes into focus. You’ll be okay, I assure her. Good thing I re-deeded the beach house when I did. She’ll be okay.

  I say my good-byes to them, because there’s no way out for me. But I can save Delilah. The best option to get her a message is my death. When Foxy discovers my body tomorrow, or when she finds me missing, she’ll suspect the Amadis, and she’ll contact the rest of the team immediately to warn them.

  It’s the only option.
I watch the attackers carefully. At least I’ll die knowing that I protected her with my last breath. Unlike so many others, I didn’t fail her. As I lie here, I find great solace in that thought.

  I feel the internal shift the instructors described during EAD training. The moment when you stop fighting the inevitable, and make peace with something bigger than you.

  I don’t believe in God. But like other sinners at the hour of death, I pray for a quick end. If it doesn’t come that way, I’ll dig deep for the mental toughness to resist, like I’ve been trained to do. I might not have lived a virtuous life, but I will go out with honor.

  “Doctor,” the lanky man calls in his native language. “It’s time.”

  The quieter of the trio approaches. He stands back from the table in his baseball cap, holding a mallet and chisel.

  Sweat is spilling out of every pore. I’m drenched. The human stench is humbling.

  The shorter of the three waves a pair of needle nose pliers in front of my face. “You will tell us.”

  I reach into my cavernous soul for courage, but it’s empty. Instead, I find it in the memories of Delilah, flashing before my eyes.

  “I’m not telling you a fucking thing,” I growl.

  47

  Delilah

  I lean over and slap Trippi’s arm playfully. “You were right. We needed to stop to sleep.”

  “I’m always right,” he says, pulling up to Wildflower. I gaze out the window at my future. In the moonlight, it doesn’t seem so scary, anymore.

  I’m eager to see Gray. To talk to him. To negotiate. To compromise. I love him, and I’m through denying myself. I’m not my mother.

  I glance at Trippi. “Do you want to take my phone, since yours is dead?”

  “Whose fault is it that my charger is in the town car?”

  I snicker, and hold out my phone.

  “Nah.” He shakes his head. “I’m all set. I’m going straight home.”

  “Suit yourself.” I grab my bag from the backseat. “Thanks for making the trip with me.”

  “Thanks for not making me hang out in Digger’s Hollow, waiting for a sign.”

  After shutting the car door, I slap my hand against the chassis, gesturing for him to go, but he waits for me to get to the door. Gray never asked for my key back when I left Wildflower. I’m sure he assumed I turned it in to Smith. I didn’t. And I hope it still works, because I’d love to surprise him.

  The grin on my face explodes when the key turns. Voila! I push open the door, and wave Trippi off. He pulls a quick U-turn and he’s gone.

  When I reach down for my bag, I notice that no one is in the guard house at the far side of the building. That’s really strange.

  I walk over to the edge of the portico, and my eye lands on a puddle at the perimeter of the parking lot. Something is dripping off the curb near the arborvitae. It hasn’t rained for weeks.

  The prickle of awareness creeps in slowly, as I draw my weapon and go around to the gate, hugging the tall bushes as I move. When I snake back around through the brush, TJ, the security guard who mans the parking lot gate, is on the ground between the fence and the bushes. He has a hole in his head, but I touch his neck, searching for even a faint pulse.

  He’s still warm, but he’s dead. Fuck.

  Gray. Gray! The panic rises, but I squelch it as I place the call. Gray doesn’t pick up. My hands are trembling as I call Smith. I scan the area, looking for threats while waiting for him to answer.

  “Sinclair,” he barks.

  “Bring a team to Wildflower. The security guard at the gate took a bullet. He’s dead and I can’t reach Gray.”

  “On my way,” Smith says. “Is this related to the op?”

  “Can’t say for sure.” I glance up. There’s light peeking through the shutters in his office. “I think Gray’s inside.”

  “Do not go in until we get there. I repeat. Do not go inside without backup.”

  “Hurry.” I hang up without making any promises.

  Other than the light in the office, the building is dimly lit, with some areas in total darkness.

  Gray never turns on the alarm until he goes upstairs for the night. Security wasn’t near the door when I unlocked it, but that’s not unusual, although I would have expected the guard to notice the door ajar by now.

  This is bad. Worse than TJ being dead, bad. I can feel it.

  I scan for danger one more time before abandoning my position. It’s clear out here. At least it appears to be.

  Without lowering my guard, I approach the front of the building low to the ground, and squeeze through the door, making as little noise as possible. Once inside, I creep along the wall so as not to cast a shadow. It’s dark in the inner hall and I almost trip over something. An arm. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  It’s not Gray. There’s no real relief, just building fear. What if I didn’t get here in time for Gray?

  The guard appears to have bled out—there’s no pulse. It’s Ainsley. Shit. I take his weapon and proceed cautiously, every move deliberate. I dread what’s waiting for me ahead. Gray can’t be dead. He just can’t be. Get it together, Delilah. There might still be assailants in the building. This is no time for a meltdown.

  “Fuckkkk!!” Gray’s harrowing scream cuts into the deathly silence.

  I want to run toward the voice, but I know better. My heart pounds wildly as I inch along.

  “Where is she?” a man’s voice shouts. “Where is your whore?”

  They want me. Gray groans. It’s tortured, sending chills up my spine. From outside Foxy’s office, I see Gray’s door is closed. But that’s where the voices—

  There’s a body on the floor. I inch closer. He’s not moving.

  Maybe I can make a deal. My life for Gray’s. They’re asking for me. It won’t work. It’ll just get us both killed.

  “Where is Delilah Porter?”

  The sound of my name strikes terror in my soul. I need to get him out of there. How?

  A distraction. That might work. I could go in through the back door of his office. Surprise them.

  I slip into the dining room and crouch under a banquet table at the far end, out of sight. Risk be damned, I have to make the contact.

  Delilah: Gray is being tortured. What’s the code to the back way into his office?

  Foxy: How many?

  Delilah: Unclear. Two voices besides Gray’s.

  Foxy: You can’t get into the office unnoticed. In the storage room, there’s a false wall that contains a vault with gear. Can you get there?

  Delilah: Yes.

  Gray screams as I make my way to the storage room. Foxy texts instructions to open the safe and I follow them explicitly, grabbing a pair of night vision goggles and a silencer from inside.

  I’m going to create a distraction. What kind of distraction, Delilah?

  Gray’s warning blasts in my head. If you contact my handler, she won’t lift a finger to protect you unless she can do it without compromising the agency. She won’t even protect me if it comes to that. Her job is to protect the integrity of the mission, and that of the agency. It’s not to save us if things get too messy.

  Screw it. I’m not entirely certain, but to be safe, I send one last text.

  Delilah: If you do anything to clean this mess up before I get him to safety, I’ll claw my way out of hell and find those grandchildren you love so much, and I’ll torture their parents while they watch, slit mommy and daddy’s throats, and let the kiddies live out the rest of their lives with the horror.

  Foxy: You’re on borrowed time.

  “AHHH!”

  My heart jolts at the sound of his voice. It’s tormented, and growing weaker.

  Think, Delilah. Think.

  Okay. I have it. Create the distraction, wait, kill, and then take the other one. I repeat this like a mantra as I go into the kitchen, and set off the smoke alarm. There’s no mistaking the sound. It’s the internal alarm that’s used for testing. It’s not hooked up to the central
system. But it’s loud.

  I’m on pins and needles waiting for the door to open, praying to a God I’ve never known. As soon as the figure turns the corner, I take the shot using a silencer, and he’s down. My breathing is ragged as I take his gun, and slink toward the office.

  The door is ajar. It will be a few minutes before his friend comes looking for him, and I need to decide whether to enter the office or wait.

  “Where is your bitch?” a man yells from inside.

  He’s going to punish Gray now. That’s been the pattern: Question. A brief silence. Gray’s tortured voice. Over and over.

  I position myself outside the doorway. I can’t see much, only the back of the attacker, hovering over someone on a table—that must be Gray. The strangled cry comes, and I lean into the doorway and take the shot while the bastard is distracted by the scream.

  Two down.

  Without thinking, I enter the room. The presence of a third man surprises me. He freezes, eyes wide, and I shoot him in the forehead without hesitating.

  My gaze goes to the table. To Gray’s bloody, swollen face. It’s agony. His shirt has been cut away and his chest looks like it’s been sliced in several places. I need to get him out of here. Now.

  “How many are there?” I ask, lightly brushing my hand over his hair.

  “Four,” he mutters. My knees wobble, and I blow out the breath I’m holding.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I promise him. “They’re all dead. But we still need to get out of here in case there are others on the way. Can you sit up?”

  He shakes his head. “Ribs. You. Go.”

  I nod. My soul weeps. It’s a brutal technique used by the Amadis and others to torture captives. They break one rib at a time, until eventually, both lungs are pierced and the victim dies. Gray can’t go anywhere. And I’m not going anywhere without him.

  I call Smith while I lock the office door, and pin a chair under the knob. It’s not much protection, but it’s something.

  “We’re about to enter,” Smith barks. “Where the fuck are you?”