by S. Massery
“Dad,” I say, just so Dalton knows. He can’t kill my dad. He can’t shoot him in cold blood, or even in a fight.
Dalton stiffens, and my father turns back toward me.
The blood drains away from Dad’s face. “You monster,” he growls.
Dalton shrugs. “You invaded my home and tried to kill me. From where I stand, you’re in the wrong.” He presses the barrel of the gun a little harder into my skin. “Drop your weapon, Sal.”
“You kill her and you’re dead,” Dad promises.
I withhold my groan.
“I think I’m a quicker draw than you.” Dalton’s voice is almost lazy. Still, I can feel the rapid beat of his heart through my back. He continues, “You move a muscle toward her, I shoot her and then you—just so you can see her die.”
Bluff. He’s bluffing.
And yet, the fear is almost too real. Too palpable. I could reach out and shape it if I had enough courage. There’s a small piece of me that wonders if we’re dealing with not just Dalton, but Morning Star, as well. The cold-blooded sniper.
His arm bands around my chest, his fingers feather-light on my arm just above the bandage. We walk backward, giving my father a clear line to get out of the house.
“Just go,” I say. What else is there to say? Admitting that Dalton won’t kill me would be akin to handing the firearm back to my father.
“I will come back for you,” he promises.
Dalton lifts the gun from my temple and points it at Sal. “Not if you want to live,” he says. “This was your one and only warning. You’ve shown your cards, old man.”
The faintest smile flashes over my father’s face before a scowl settles on it. He backs toward the door and then out, hustling to the door next to the gate—which appears to have been forcibly unlocked—and into a car.
As soon as he’s gone, Dalton releases me.
My legs give out, but he sinks to the floor with me. We kneel facing each other, my left thigh against his right one.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He does the unthinkable—he pulls me into a hug. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s okay,” I say. I let my chin rest on his shoulder, my hands folded in my lap. He’s solid and real, and I’m not quite ready to accept that I want nothing more than to throw myself at him.
Adrenaline rush, a voice in my mind whispers. The voice of reason. I try to swallow that insistent desire as his hands move up and down my back.
“I wouldn’t have shot you,” he says. He leans back, staring me in the eyes. He looks…
Distraught.
“Grace? I wouldn’t have hurt you.”
I find myself nodding. I didn’t really question it—not in the moment, and not now. My fear ebbs away. “I know. It’s okay.”
“It’s not. I promise I won’t—”
I put my hand over his mouth, just to get him to stop this word vomit. “You may have to do it again,” I say. “So don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
His eyes darken, and I slowly drop my hand from his face. The air between us gets hotter, like someone left the oven door open. I flash back to his words earlier: If I want to kiss you, you’ll know.
I lean forward slightly, and he meets me halfway. Our lips slam together, desperation overriding my senses. I’ve never felt so still in a whirlwind of chaos. The only thing that moves, that touches, are our lips. His tongue teases my lips open, and a firecracker spins through my body.
I grab his shoulders. His lips taste like saltwater and honey.
His arms come around my back, guiding me to the floor. His weight settles over me, and we kiss until we’re both gasping for air. He turns his head, peppering kisses down my neck, while I try to regain control of my thoughts.
“Dalton,” I mumble. His teeth nip my neck, and goosebumps break across my skin.
He pulls back, meeting my gaze. I wait for the rush of insecurity, the nerves, the regret—none come. I just stare at his blue eyes and wonder if he’ll still look at me like that when he realizes I brought danger to his doorstep.
“You’re right,” he whispers. He rocks back on his heels, offering his hands.
I take them, and he lifts me to my feet, rising with me.
“I left your shoes on the stairs,” he says. “I’ll get them.”
I’ve tracked sand into the house. Do we kiss and then go back to bickering? Do things change from here? Part of me is still in shock, I think, because he disappears and I rush to the front door and slide the deadbolt.
I wipe down my thighs, and my fingers catch on the chain I had slid into my pocket. I hold the necklace in the air. It dangles from my fingers, sparkling in the sunlight and catching his attention.
“Mom never liked it,” he says, reentering the room. “So really—keep it. It’ll remind you of me.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I killed a lot of people,” he says.
“The Marines.” I nod. “Colin mentioned it.”
He exhales. “Yeah, and then with a military contractor for three years. Their assignments were more loosely based on the law.”
“I understand that much,” I say. “The Argentos operate the same way.”
“Get your things,” he says suddenly. “And then we need to leave.”
I retreat to my room. My plastic bag is on the bed, filled with the things I took from Safe Haven. Fresh underwear, a t-shirt. I raid Dalton’s mom’s closet for additional clothes, only feeling slightly guilty when I walk out with a small armful.
I slide my boots on and grab the bag, jogging down the stairs. Because of the flash drive hidden in the sole of my boots, I’m conscious of walking funny, but I can’t not. I only hope he doesn’t realize I have it.
Evidence.
The possibilities of where to go from here are endless, and I’m… a bit baffled by it all.
“Come on,” Dalton says. “Got everything you need?”
I shrug. “I didn’t come with much.”
“Right.” He grunts. “We can stop somewhere and fix that, but we need to get out of here.”
I follow him to the car, tossing my bag in the backseat.
Once we’re strapped in, the gate rumbling open to let us leave, he spares me a quick glance. “I think it’s time that you talk.”
“Oh?”
He nods. “Why do they want you back so badly? Why send your father?”
“Probably to try and get me to go with them more easily.” I shift in my seat.
“Let’s talk end goals.”
I pick at my fingernails. “End goal. Like, dream end goal? The one that probably won’t happen?”
“Sure.”
We get out of town relatively easy and speed toward the interstate.
“Javier and Marco in jail,” I say. “My dad would check into a rehab place for his alcohol abuse.”
He just shakes his head.
“What?” I snap. “Is that not good enough?”
“What about you, Grace? You seem to be eager for everyone else to meet their fate—what about yours?”
“I just want to be free,” I say in a low voice. “Doesn’t matter where. I just don’t…” I groan and rub my face with both hands. “They keep their women with their wings clipped. That isn’t me. I can’t just conform and behave however my husband wants me to. I don’t want to raise a child into that family. I can’t become an Argento.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? What does that mean?”
“I mean, okay. We’ll take down the Argentos and get your father help and make sure you’re not trapped in the house when we set it on fire.”
My heart pounds. “You’ll help me?”
“That’s what I meant by okay,” he says.
“I could kiss you again,” I blurt out. “Why are you helping me?”
His fingers drum on the steering wheel. “I think this might be my atonement.”
I let that word echo around my head. Atonement. It’s not everyday someone thinks they ca
n redeem themselves by helping destroy a family. It’s kind of twisted, actually, that this will be the thing that sets him free, too.
But in a way, it makes sense.
Blood will atone for our sins.
Whose blood, though, is the question that still needs to be answered.
20
DALTON
“How did your dad find us?” I ask Grace.
We’ve been on the road for hours, heading northeast. We’ve just about crossed into Georgia. Driving always gives me time to think. It’s much the same as hiking to the best vantage point. It’s quiet enough that I can mull everything over, twisting and turning the pieces to examine every angle.
“And Javier’s men at Safe Haven,” I add.
She looks at me.
We drive past a sign on the interstate that tells us we’re entering Jacksonville, and I try not to sigh. I haven’t talked to Jackson Skye since we flew home. He can be a royal jackass, even if he sacrifices absolutely everything once he puts his mind to something. He was the Tactical Specialist of our merry band of mercenaries—a nickname I seem to be unable to stop referring to us as—which gave him a sort of power over the rest of us. In my mind, at least.
“Well,” she hedges.
My gaze snaps toward her, then back to the road. “Spill.”
“Ithinktheymaybetrackingme,” she says, fast as she can. Like she’s allergic to the words and needs to get them out.
I slam on the brakes. Cars honk as they swerve around us, and I yank the steering wheel to the side. We skid to a stop on the shoulder of the highway, and I fully turn in my seat to glare at her. “You didn’t think to mention that before?”
She shrugs delicately. Her arm must still be in pain—no shit, Sherlock—because her lips pull down for a fraction of a second. “It’s just a guess. I don’t know.”
I squint at her, then start driving again. My chest is too tight. Being on the ground, being vulnerable like this… I almost laugh. It’s what I had wanted, all those years ago. Wyatt told me the best place for me was far, far away. The devil on their shoulders, keeping them safe.
You and Griffin are our two most important guys, Wyatt once said. He was our leader, the best strategist I had ever seen. He played life like a game of chess, thinking ten steps ahead of everyone else. You’re our protector, and Griff keeps us alive if anything slips through the cracks.
Protector.
War Hero.
Sinner.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
“We need to get off the streets,” I mumble. I fish out my cell and hand it to her. “Call Mason. He’s in my favorites.”
Her eyebrow hikes up, but she unlocks my phone and dials his number.
“Yo,” Mason answers on the second ring.
“Grace and I are in a little bit of a jam,” I say without preamble. “Think you could find a safe place for us to land in or around Jacksonville?”
“What the hell are you doing in Jacksonville? You really miss him that much?” Mason asks.
Grace snorts.
“I’ll see if there are any vacation home rentals this time of year.”
“It’s July,” Grace says. “Everything is going to be sold out or shitty.”
Mason chuckles. “Grace, is it? Nice to meet you. I think.”
She presses her lips together. “Same. Except I have no idea who you are.”
“Mason Dobbs,” he says. “CEO of a cyber security firm here in Vegas. Dalton and I were on the same crew for Scorpion.”
“Okay, okay,” I cut in. “Enough chitchat. Call me back when you’ve got someplace.” I reach over and hit the end button.
Grace scowls at me. “Are you allergic to polite conversation?”
“Yes,” I deadpan. “It gives me hives.”
She rolls her eyes as we get off at an exit. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to figure out how they’re tracking us,” I grumble. “You might not like this part.”
“What are you going to do, strip search me?”
No, but that’s a good idea…
She sees the look in my eye and frowns. “I was kidding.”
Navigation has always been a talent of mine. Within a few minutes, I pull onto a street that dead-ends at the beach.
“Another ocean?” she asks. “We just did this.”
“This is public and open,” I say. I jerk my chin toward the boardwalk. “Good place to see if anyone is coming to searching for us. Unless you’d prefer a different route…”
“Like what?” Her throat moves as she gulps.
“I could dump you in the ocean, fully clothed,” I offer.
“No,” she spits. “Absolutely not.”
I stare at her. “Any reason why not?”
“Because—”
“Because you have something on you that you don’t want to get wet?”
Her face blanches.
Triumph bleeds through me. Wasn’t sure I was going to get anywhere with that, but what do you know? “Gotcha, sweetheart. Now, you tell me, or I’ll haul you out of here and toss you into the waves myself.”
“Okay, okay,” she mumbles. She reaches down and yanks off her boot. “I’m telling you because you’re threatening me, not for any other reason.”
I wait as she pulls the sole of her boot out, followed by a small black object wrapped in clear plastic.
“What is it?”
“This,” she starts, sucking in a lungful of air, “is everything we would need to put Marco in jail.”
“How?”
“Photos, where he’s clearly doing things he shouldn’t. I don’t—”
I hold out my hand and wait for her to give it to me. Part of me wants to just chuck it out the window, both for her reaction and because this is putting both of us in danger.
“Lay this out for me,” I murmur, unwrapping it. It appears to be a regular, tiny USB drive. Nothing special. Unless there’s a micro-tracker under the plastic, there must be something else. “You took this. It has photos of Marco incriminating himself.”
“Yes,” she says.
“Where was it?”
“In Javier’s office.” She crosses her arms.
A family walks by us on the sidewalk. Two little kids, their skin almost purple-white from the amount of sunscreen on them, and their parents doggedly following behind them.
“So there’s a chance that Marco doesn’t know about this?”
She glances back at me. “What?”
“Javier had it.”
“He was out of town.”
“So? Does Marco use Javier’s computer?”
She looks at the ceiling, and I wonder how big her catalog of memories is of Marco. What he’s done to her to make her quake in fear. To make her want to run away, leaving the only life she’s known, to avoid marrying him.
“He doesn’t normally,” she allows.
I unlock the Jeep doors and hop out, gesturing for her to follow me. I have the flash drive, so I think she’d follow me anywhere. We walk down the boardwalk, avoiding bikers and runners, until we get to a restaurant above a surf shop. There’s a sandy set of stairs leading up to it, and the seating is outside. Panels of glass block the worst of the wind, and giant umbrellas protect diners from the sun.
Once we’re seated, right by one of the glass panels that gives us a clear view of the boardwalk, I say, “Why would Javier have evidence on his own son? On a flash drive, no less?”
She shrugs.
“Does he have stuff on other people?”
“Probably,” she says. “He’s kind of a control freak.”
I hum. “So let’s assume that Javier and Marco are at odds.”
Her cheeks go red.
I lean over the table. “Your face makes me think we don’t have to assume anything.”
“I, uh… have to tell you something.”
Ah. I was wondering if she was going to cop to telling Marco I was back in Miami. I should roast her for it—after all, that i
nitial spark of anger is why I shot her. She ratted on me, and in turn we both almost suffered the consequences.
“I told Marco that you were back,” she blurts out. “And that if he brought you in, it would be easier for him to take over the Argento businesses.”
“You played him,” I say.
She just blinks at me. Her mouth opens, making a perfect circle.
I continue, “I think you knew I’d be harder to pin down than that. And maybe you were mad at me—”
“I was definitely pissed,” she mumbles.
“You blamed me for everything that happened. I get it.” I nod, reaching across the table and snagging her hand. Her fingers lace together with mine. “So you thought you might take out two birds with one stone?”
She shakes her head. “I thought he would go in there in a blaze of glory, and while everyone was distracted, I could get out of town.”
I smile. “And that completely backfired.”
“He wanted to use me as bait.”
“Clearly.”
“He’s evil,” she says. Her fingers spasm, and she tries to pull away.
I don’t let her.
“What has he done to you?”
“I’d really love to talk about anything except for this,” she whispers.
I let go of her hand, nodding. I understand what it’s like to be provoked. To want to avoid the harsh memories of the past. “Okay, Grace.”
“Thanks.”
A server comes by with our drinks and food menus.
“What’s next?” Grace asks me. “We can’t just hop around Florida until they get bored.”
“There might be a tracker in this thing,” I say, putting the flash drive flat on the table. “So we either need to get it loaded onto something else or block its signal.”
“I read once that aluminum foil can do that.” She perks up.
“Great.” I raise my hand and get the server’s attention, asking for a foil box.
She gives me an odd look, then tells me she’ll be right back. Once I have it, I twist it around the flash drive and stand. “Let’s get out of here.”
She points to the boardwalk. “Too late,” she mutters. “Marco found us.”
21
GRACE