Game of Lies

by Amanda K. Byrne

  This is not going to end well.

  Chapter 5

  Someone shouts. A dark blur races from the porch to the yard, and one of the two new men goes down hard as he’s tackled from the side. It takes a second for the other guy to realize what’s going on. He yanks the tackler to his feet, and from the hoot of laughter, I can tell it’s Constantine.

  I can’t believe he’s laughing about this. The man sure has a bizarre idea of a good time. A shot rings out, Constantine’s attacker stumbling and falling to the ground, leaving Constantine to face off with Isaiah and the guy he tackled.

  Nick takes a step toward us, blocking my view of the fight behind him. He hasn’t said anything. Why hasn’t he said anything? I push the rising panic down and scrabble for calm. Nick’s thinking. That’s all this is. Tris hasn’t let go of my throat. His hand squeezes hard, choking the air right back out, and my heart’s pounding in my ears. He shoves the gun into the side of my head. “Nice try,” he says. Before I can recover, he lets go of my throat, grabs first one wrist, then the other, yanking them behind my back and cutting off my only route to a weapon.

  Memories of Isaiah binding my arms and legs, his knife slicing into my skin, threaten to overwhelm me. I shut my eyes, the sounds of Constantine’s fight echoing in my ears. He can handle himself. He’s not my concern. I need a plan. An escape route. Isaiah rendered me helpless. As long as the safety stays on, I’m not this time.

  Tris is behind me, and while he’s holding my wrists, I can move my hands. His legs are spread, knees on either side of my calves, evening out the height difference a bit. I hope it’s enough.

  “Drop the gun.”

  My eyes snap open. The first lick of fear dances up my spine as Nick stands in front of me, gun pointed at Tris. I shake my head, heedless of the oily metal pressed to my temple. Bad plan. Horrible plan. He’s got more to lose than I do. I won’t have him shot because he got in the middle of my problem.

  A click, and Nick’s flicked the safety off. The fear races higher. Tris is a highly trained law enforcement officer. If I do anything now, the risk he’ll squeeze the trigger is much, much higher than it was twenty seconds ago.

  Another click. The safety on Tris’s gun. There’s nothing standing between me and a bullet in the brain now. I bite my tongue. This isn’t happening. I’m not on my knees with Nick in front of me, gun trained on a police officer. He said so himself; he won’t be able to bury Tris’s death. Someone will have to pay.

  Tris laughs. Laughs. “You want to test your reflexes against mine?”

  “I want you to let Cass go. Isaiah’s the one who wants her. You don’t think he’ll be angry if you get to her before he does?”

  “I think he’s a bit busy at the moment.” But Tris moves the barrel away from my head, and I don’t bother hiding my sigh of relief.

  Then I go for his balls.

  I sag into him, hands spread as wide as I can make them, and take advantage of his surprise and grab him, squeezing hard. As he releases my wrists, his gun goes off and I roll away from him, going for the knife strapped to my ankle.

  Nick staggers, drawing my attention, and I watch in horror as he collapses in slow motion, his legs folding under him like a newborn deer’s. “Nick!” The fear takes over completely, and I forget the knife, crawling over to him. He’s propped himself up on one elbow, his dazed expression barely visible in the dark. I run my hands over his chest and arms, searching for the wound and not finding it. “Where is it?” I mutter.

  “Leg,” he rasps. I grope down his right leg, snatching my hands away when they come into contact with wetness. I’m dimly aware of the sounds of Constantine’s continued fight, the sounds of flesh slapping flesh broken only by their grunts of exertion.

  Hands like titanium close around my upper arms, and I’m pulled to my feet. A violent, sudden fury crashes into me. Tris and his fucking gun. It’s always about the guns. Their absolute immediacy, the lack of accuracy that causes damage nonetheless. That gun needs to go.

  He releases one arm to shift his hold, and I jump, his chin connecting with the top of my head. Ignoring the pain radiating through my skull, I free a knife from its sheath and dive to the ground as another shot rings out. I roll onto my back as Tris lunges for me. I plunge the knife into his thigh, yanking it free when he stumbles. Five seconds to rise to my knees, and I strike again, this time at his groin.

  His gun drops to the ground, and I scramble for it as he does his own slo-mo collapse, staggering sideways. He lands on top of the gun. I shove my hand under him. He’s a dead weight, pressing down on my hand as I try to wrap it around the butt of the gun. I barely jostle him as I slide it free.

  I flick on the safety and get to my feet. I back away slowly until I’m at Nick’s side. Tris hasn’t moved, just stares up at the sky, one hand at his groin, his chest lifting in short, sharp pants. I drop to the ground beside Nick and lay the gun next to me.

  He’s taken off his shirt and pressed it to the wound. I cover his hands with mine, applying even more pressure. “Hey,” I say softly. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Get something to tie this off with. Con will call a crew to clean this up.”

  As I head for the house, the lack of noise and movement from Isaiah’s section of the yard hits me, and I glance over.

  The world stops.

  The two unidentified men are lumps on the ground, neither of them moving. Isaiah lies a few feet away. Constantine’s kneeling at his side. My feet move of their own volition, leading me to Isaiah. Constantine looks up, his expression blurred in the shadows. “I’m sorry, Cass.”

  I sink down and bend over Isaiah’s prone form. He’s still breathing. He has to be. His chest has to be moving. I place a hand on it, willing it to move.

  It doesn’t.

  * * * *

  Isaiah is dead.

  Killed by a stray bullet. Shot from his own bodyguard’s gun, according to Constantine.

  I stare out the window at the passing streetlights, Nick’s hand clasped in mine. We had to leave the bodies where they fell, the scream of approaching sirens ticking down the seconds to discovery.

  This is why I don’t use guns.

  The car hits a bump in the road, and Nick hisses, his hand tightening on mine reflexively. “You should have left the knife,” he says.

  I pull my attention from the street. “Huh?”

  “The knife. You should have left it with the body.”

  It’s still clutched in my other hand. I need to clean it. My fingers are sticky with drying blood. Nick’s. Tris’s. Isaiah’s.

  So much blood.

  “No.” I hear myself as though I’m at the end of a tunnel. “I might need it again.” I wipe the blade on my jeans and release his hand to slip it into the sheath.

  Isaiah is dead. The monster should be sated. Instead, it’s confused. There’s no adrenaline rush. No crushing need to push forward.

  All these weeks since Turner’s murder, I’ve been betting on this one last death to set everything right. To take my crooked, turned-around world and reorder it into some semblance of structure I can understand. This was supposed to end with my knife slicing a brilliant, gruesome smile across Isaiah’s throat.

  It didn’t account for the possibility he might die some other way.

  The car hits another bump, causing Nick to swear under his breath. Nick. He hasn’t left me. Not after everything I’ve done or how carelessly I’ve treated him. He was shot because of me. It’s my turn to be there for him, to hold his hand and tell him everything will be all right.

  The words won’t leave my mouth. I can’t get them out. Maybe my tongue has finally developed a mind of its own and knows any reassurances I could offer would just be a lie.

  I can’t lie to Nick.

  I lean over his leg to inspect the makeshift bandage. His bloody shirt is held in place by a length of twine I found in the kitchen. It’s not very sturdy, and the cloth is dark and damp to
the touch. While I’m pretty sure the bullet missed the femoral artery, I don’t like that he’s still bleeding. “How much farther?” I ask Constantine.

  “Twenty minutes if we’re lucky,” he says grimly. He meets my eyes in the rearview for a brief moment before checking his blind spot and changing lanes, speeding up to pass the car in front of us.

  We’ve already passed Huntington Hospital, the closest trauma center. “Hermosa Beach is too far.” Hospitals mean questions, but there’s discretion and then there’s life-threatening. Simon’s too far away, and Nick could need blood. The longer it takes to get him the care he needs, the worse he’ll get—and the longer his recovery will take. With Isaiah gone, though, he’ll be able to focus on getting healthy without constantly looking over his shoulder.

  His life will go back to normal.

  “Not Simon’s house.” Nick’s voice is quiet and tired. “He’s on staff at General. He’s meeting us there.”

  Angels General Hospital is crowded. Crowded, busy, underfunded, and understaffed. In other words, perfect for people who can’t risk questions.

  With effort, I push thoughts of Isaiah and his death from my mind. “How will this work?”

  “Bypass the ER. Surgery’s on the fifth floor. Tish will meet us at the south employee entrance.” Constantine swerves around another car.

  “Hopefully she’ll have a wheelchair,” I mutter. Nick shouldn’t even try to walk on his leg. It’ll only make everything worse.

  “With a wheelchair,” Constantine agrees. “She gets us up to surgery, Simon goes in and stitches Nick up, we get him home.”

  “Cass takes me home.”

  Constantine risks a glance over his shoulder. “She’s not strong enough to—”

  “I’m strong enough, thank you,” I interrupt. “I can get us home.” I have no idea how he’ll get up the stairs, and he needs to spend at least the first night in an actual bed. “You won’t be staying overnight in the hospital?”

  “We can commandeer an operating room for a couple of hours, and it won’t cause too much of a hassle. Can’t do the same with a hospital bed.” Nick tips his head onto the seat back and shuts his eyes. His skin looks sickly in the passing flashes from the streetlights, and I bend over to check the wound again. I can’t tell if it’s bleeding as much as it was or if it’s slowed.

  He taps my hand. “I’m okay,” he murmurs.

  I lift my head and stare at him. “No. You’re not.”

  “Listen to your girlfriend, Dom.” Constantine takes a corner too fast, and I fall into Nick’s side, my blood-covered hand smacking into the center of his bare chest.

  “You’re not okay. And no offense, Cass, but Dom will need help getting around immediately after the surgery. Let me take you guys back to wherever you’re staying.”

  So Nick’s cousin doesn’t know where we are? Interesting. I lean in and place my lips next to his ear. “Why can’t he drive us home?” I whisper.

  Nick’s hand comes up to cover mine, and too late, I try to jerk it away. All that blood, that symbol of my failure, tainting Nick. “He agrees with my dad and his,” he whispers back. “I don’t trust him not to rat us out, and the last thing I need is someone taking you from me.” He manages a smile. “Besides, he’s a motherfucking asshole at launch time.”

  “I heard that.” Constantine scowls at Nick in the rearview. “You want your privacy, I’ll give it to you.”

  “You said that the last time. Then you woke me three times in the middle of the night, every night, for a solid week before the last launch. I’m not out of touch, Con. Just need to ensure some space.”

  Constantine grumbles and turns another corner.

  She’s costing us money.

  She could get you killed.

  I figured Nick’s trust in his cousin was absolute. The chink is unexpected, and I’m not sure what to do about it.

  I pull my hand away from his chest as the hospital looms into view, the sprawling complex lit with spotlights. We bypass the emergency room, and Constantine screeches to a halt outside an unmarked door. Tish, the blonde from Simon’s house, is waiting beside a wheelchair. She jerks the car door open, and Nick struggles to push himself out and into the chair.

  I get out of the car and hurry around to the other side. I slip under one of his arms to support his weight. We manage to get him into the chair. Tish starts for the hospital door, and I check the back seat to make sure we have everything. We barely managed to grab Nick’s laptop, the surveillance equipment, and my water bottle before the first cop car showed up. I’m paranoid we forgot something.

  Before I can shut the door, Constantine says my name. “I need to call his father. Fair warning. Andreas will come.”

  Great.

  Constantine drives off, and I run to the door, catching it before it can close completely. I follow Tish to a bank of elevators and get my first good look at Nick since he was shot.

  I was right. His skin is sickly, practically gray, his mouth tight with pain, a frown line digging deep between his brows. My rusty handprint is dead center of his chest, a grotesque reminder of the night. More blood spatter dots his abdomen and forearms, and the right leg of his jeans is stained dark with blood from hip to knee. The shirt is soaked through where it’s pressed to the wound, the edges still the faded blue the fabric was before it became a tourniquet.

  The elevator arrives, and it’s thankfully empty. Tish pushes Nick in first, hits the button for the fifth floor.

  “Constantine was going to call your father. He seemed certain Andreas would come.”

  Nick laughs weakly. “He will. He’ll sit in the waiting area, not saying a word, and when Simon comes out, he’ll tell him that in no uncertain terms am I to die.” He takes my hand, and I stare down at his large one dwarfing mine.

  When Simon stitched me up, Nick stayed by my side the entire time. “Will Simon let me in the operating room?” I ask Tish.

  She shakes her head and pushes the chair through the doors. “There are some rules he’s willing to bend in this hospital. That’s not one of them. No unauthorized personnel in the operating suite.”

  I don’t want to let go of his hand. It’s awkward, walking alongside the wheelchair and trying not to trip, but dread creeps in with every step toward Simon. He’s clad in blue scrubs and waiting at a set of swinging double doors.

  He acknowledges me with a dip of his head and points to the right. “Restroom three doors down. Cafeteria’s on the second floor.” He turns to push through the doors.

  “Wait.” What if I never see Nick again? What if he doesn’t wake up? Panic whips through me, clearing away the numbness. I’ve lost too many people. I can’t lose him.

  Nick’s hand flexes in mine. “There’s an observation room, isn’t there? She can watch there.”

  “That room is for medical students, here to learn,” Simon argues. “Friends and family stay in the waiting area. No exceptions.”

  Incredibly, Nick straightens, power rolling off him even as he sits bleeding from the leg and in obvious pain. “Make one.”

  Simon’s expression freezes into stone. “Dominic—”

  “Make. One.”

  They glare at one another, each beat of Nick’s heart pumping more blood out through his wound. I’m about to let go of his hand and back off when Simon jerks around and pushes through the doors, waving his hand for me to follow.

  “Bathroom.” He points to a door as he passes. “Wash your hands. I’ll have a nurse bring you a set of scrubs to change into. She’ll show you to the observation room.”

  Tish pauses long enough for me to kiss Nick good-bye, and then he’s rolling down the hall. Away from me.

  Half an hour later, hands washed, clad in clean scrubs, I stand at the window of the observation room watching as they bring Nick in for surgery.

  Chapter 6

  Operating rooms are nothing like they appear on television. They made me think the room would be a t
able in the middle of a dim space, with blinding lights hanging overhead to amp up the drama. There would be far too many heads bent over the table, and sooner or later the conversation would devolve into a discussion of who was fucking who in the supply closet.

  There’s hardly anyone in the room, and it’s bright and sparkling clean. Everyone is calm. Nick’s even grinning. It’s a loopy expression, and it gets loopier when he turns his head toward the observation room. He raises his fist and gives me an agonizingly slow thumbs-up.

  The scrub-clad people crowd around the table with Tish next to Nick’s head, blocking my view of his face. All I get are peeks when she shifts to check a line as Simon works to repair the damage to Nick’s leg. Alone in the observation room without any way of knowing how badly the bullet ripped him up, I’m left to pace.

  And think.

  We weren’t prepared. Right to the end, Isaiah caught us with our pants down. He knew we were in the house. Maybe it was blind luck he got me in the backyard alone, but he was prepared.

  I frown. Constantine was the one to find out the owners were on vacation, allowing us to break in and set up surveillance in the living room. His help wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. So why can’t I brush aside his sudden appearance moments after hanging up with Nick?

  I stop in the middle of the room and watch the surgical team for a moment. Nick has utter confidence and trust in his cousin. Hell, I trust him. I had some doubts in the beginning, but he’s proven himself over and over. There’s no solid reason for my suspicions.

  If it is all an act, Nick will be devastated.

  I start pacing again, brain latching on to the mystery of Constantine’s behavior like it’s a life raft. If this is some kind of ruse, I’ll need evidence. The list I gave Nick months ago won’t be sufficient. I have to have indisputable proof that Constantine was in on this from the beginning.