Game of Vengeance

by Amanda K. Byrne

  “That was my thinking, yes.”

  I squirm around to face him. “Scott wouldn’t have been shot if he wasn’t my friend.”

  Nick raises a brow. “He could have been shot walking down the street even if he wasn’t your friend. It’s LA. Crime happens.”

  Immature as it is, I can’t stop myself from sticking my tongue out at him. “Yeah, but this happened because he had the bad fortune of knowing me. What if this is part of the plan? Distract me, make me think any one of my friends could be the real target, and we waste so much energy protecting the wrong people we’re too late to save whoever he’s really after?” We need to hit back, we need to hit him hard, and there’s no room for error.

  Our evening of us, and only us, in our hidey-hole, disappears. “We can’t keep sitting around. We need a plan.”

  He sighs. “Yeah.”

  Chapter 18

  The house reminds me of Nick’s. It’s a normal house with multiple bedrooms in Glendale. There’s a tricycle in the driveway, and the neighbors have a swing set. The street’s quiet in the mid-morning sun.

  Nick stops at the end of the front walk and studies the house.“It’s a house.”

  I roll my eyes. I was against him coming with me for this part, unsure how the doctor would react. “Very astute of you. Will you go back to the car?” We parked several streets away.

  He doesn’t bother responding, just continues his perusal. “You sure this is the place?” he asks.

  “Very. Your house didn’t look like it belonged to a member of LA’s criminal underworld, did it?” He snorts and steps forward. I stop him with a hand on his arm. “Don’t say anything. I mean it,” I add at his raised eyebrow. “He doesn’t know my real name. It gives him a measure of security, knowing he can tell the authorities he doesn’t know who I am and he’s actually telling the truth. So keep your mouth shut, and we’ll be in and out soon enough.”

  He thins his mouth to a firm slash and slips his hands into his pockets, nodding for me to precede him.

  Doctor Joe is a veterinarian, one of a couple Turner rotates between. When Turner first brought me to him, I’d just completed my first job. It was the one and only time I’d been to his house. The few exchanges we had after took place at a trendy cafe on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena.

  So when I texted him to ask for supplies, I was surprised when he told me to come to his house. Either he no longer cares if he’s caught or he’s getting sloppy.

  I knock, and half a minute later the door swings open. Doctor Joe gives me a nod in greeting, then freezes when his gaze slides to Nick. “Can I help you?” His tone is polite, but every muscle in his body is tense.

  Great. I knew I should have snuck out to handle this. “Do you want him to wait in the car?”

  Doctor Joe gives Nick one last, long look and shakes his head. “No. Come in.”

  He leads us into the living room. Toys are strewn around one corner, and the shades are drawn. The vials sit on a scarred coffee table next to broken crayons and a couple of Legos.

  Dealing with outside parties requires trust. It doesn’t matter that no names are exchanged, no pertinent details passed on about lives or loves or why the hell a twenty-one-year-old woman needs multiple vials of potassium chloride. I have to trust that the person selling me the goods isn’t about to rat me out, and he has to trust that I’m not setting him up or sending him up the river. It’s a mutually distrustful trusting relationship.

  Still…

  “I’m surprised you asked me to come here,” I say. The change in protocol is surprising, though not unexpected, I guess. He’s a vet. He doesn’t think like I do. He may very well just have been at home and decided to get it over with.

  He shrugs. “Your request was unusual.”

  It’s three vials, two more than what I normally ask for. I took a risk asking him for as many as he could spare, but I tell myself this is the last time I’ll need it, the last time I’ll contact him, the last time I’ll see him. There’s no reason for him to get burned because of my choices.

  Nick lays the money on the table. Another point we argued over last night, him paying for my tools of destruction. His winning argument was he can hide large withdrawals of money from his accounts. While it looks like no one has found my offshore account, it’s a risk he’s not willing to take.

  We still have several more stops to make—a few more vets, the shooting range, Nick’s blade guy, as he calls him, plus my first Krav Maga session—but something keeps my ass glued to the couch. We’re in Doctor Joe’s house. In the middle of the day.

  “Nick?”

  He gets up without a word and walks to the front windows, twitching the curtains out of the way. “Black Toyota three houses to the left. Wasn’t there when we came in.” He turns to the vet. “Any of your neighbors drive a black Toyota Rav4? Newer model?”

  Doctor Joe frowns. “Three houses down, you said? That’s the Hatfields. No Toyota.”

  Nick takes out his phone and nudges the curtain aside. “Peter? Dom. Need you to run a plate for me. California plate B37IX9Y. Black Toyota Rav4.”

  “What’s going on?” the doctor asks.

  I pull my gaze away from Nick. Joe’s face is pale and growing paler, his eyes darting between the front door and Nick.

  “Not sure yet.” I note the sweat forming at his hairline. “Nick should know shortly.”

  The good doctor nods, his attention drifting to the front door once again. I scoop up the vials and tuck them into my bag, then slip my phone free of its pocket and thumb off the lock, keeping it hidden in the depths of my purse. One eye on the vet, the other on my phone, I type a quick message to Nick. Doc’s acting funny.

  Nick’s phone pings twice in quick succession. His expression remains cool and blank as he reads the messages. His thumbs fly over the surface as he taps out a reply.

  My phone buzzes in my hand a second later. Car’s not one of mine or Con’s. Head for the back door. NOW.

  I tuck the phone into its pocket and zip my purse. “Doctor Joe? Do you mind if I get a glass of water? We’ve got a long drive ahead of us, and I’m a little thirsty.” I paste on a sunny smile, forcing my lips wider when he glances over.

  “Uh. Sure. Glasses are in the cupboard next to the sink.”

  “Thanks.” I sling my purse over my shoulder and pick my way through the living room, dodging toys and small shoes. In the kitchen, I find the glasses, fill one with water, and sip it slowly as I scan the backyard.

  Empty. It won’t be for long.

  Doctor Joe’s yard backs up to someone else’s yard, separated by a chain-link fence. Easy to climb, thankfully. The lot to the right has a wooden fence. Harder to scale, but doable.

  I set the glass on the counter and ease open the kitchen door, careful to stay close to the house as I step outside. Gauging the distance between the back of the house and the fence, I adjust my grip on my purse and hurry across the lawn to the fence.

  The first shout rings out as I swing my leg over the top. I drop to the ground and take off at a dead run for the wooden fence. My flats slip on the wood, forcing me back to my feet. Cursing, I rip off my shoes, toss them and my purse over the top of the fence, back up, and try again.

  A splinter digs itself into the ball of my foot, but I manage to haul myself up. I lower myself to the ground, wincing when I land. The backyard I’m in is completely fenced, so no one can see me. I take a minute to yank the splinter free, then slip on my shoes as a gunshot shatters the quiet.

  That’s my cue to get the hell out of here.

  The next house has a wooden fence as well, plus a two-by-four near the bottom where the boards are nailed. I use it as a toehold and poke my head over the top, pausing to look around.

  A second gunshot follows the first, and Nick rushes into Doctor Joe’s backyard. I boost myself up and over the fence, then head for the gate.

  My heart’s thudding loud enough it vibrates in my ears. I ease
open the gate. The sidewalk out front is empty, but I’m more interested in the houses across the street. Heart in my throat, trying not to think about the shots, I lose countless seconds waiting for a curtain to twitch or a door to open.

  The wail of an approaching siren breaks me from my stasis, and I slip through the gate and out to the sidewalk. Nick’s nowhere in sight. Swallowing hard, I force myself to walk at a steady, normal pace to the end of the block, winding my way back to the car.

  He’s not there when I walk up. I fish my phone out of my bag, send him a short text, and lean against the hood of the car to wait. Ten minutes. If he doesn’t show in ten minutes, I’ll start walking.

  The sirens grow louder. We might have been seen, coming or going. Nick might have been detained. I can’t stay here. It’s too close.

  I straighten and turn away, ready to put some distance between me and whatever mess Nick left behind.

  Where is he? Why hasn’t he responded?

  I glance over my shoulder one last time and see Nick at the end of the street. My relief’s so great I forget all about being cool and composed and I run toward him. Seconds later, I’m in his arms, his mouth hot and reassuring on mine.

  “What happened?” I whisper once he lets me take a breath.

  Another quick smooch, and he eases back. “We need to move.”

  We get in the car, and he pulls away from the curb. He drives down streets at random, turning left or right every couple of blocks. He keeps up the silence and pulls into the parking lot of a small park.

  Today must be our day for empty spaces because the park’s deserted except for a woman and a dog, bounding happily after a stick. Nick and I walk to the swings and sit down, and I push off with one foot.

  Ticking back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum, I break the silence. “What happened?”

  Nick sets his swing in motion. “Someone got to the doctor first.”

  “Isaiah?”

  “He wouldn’t say, but it’s likely.”

  Who else would it have been. I pump a little harder. “Who shot first?”

  “Nikos. He’s dead.”

  “He’s not on the list.” Our ever-expanding list of names, men loyal to Isaiah.

  “Because he was one of Constantine’s. Isaiah must have gotten to him.”

  Or Constantine sent him. Where the hell did that thought come from? Nick’s cousin has been nothing but helpful and concerned. All of this is on Isaiah’s head, and no one else’s. I ignore the niggling worry that I’m assuming too much. “And Doctor Joe?”

  Nick doesn’t say anything, and I tighten my hands around the chains of the swing. Some little kid’s without his father now because of me. A lot of people seem to be getting in trouble because of me. “Maybe we should skip the others.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “Contacts of Turner’s, people he’s gotten supplies from in the past. None of them wanted to meet with me until I told them who’s daughter I was.” Doctor Joe’s the only one I’ve needed before. Before I met Nick, my kills numbered nine. Nick would have been ten had I gone through with it. Three died by potassium chloride, one by heroin overdose, and the rest were death by knife.

  I slow, and Nick reaches out and catches the chain on the swing, stopping me completely. I twist for a few seconds as the momentum spins out. “It’s like I’ve become the Grim Reaper,” I say softly. “I think I’ve killed more people in the last two months than I have in the last five years.” I glance at him. “You remember the shoot-out in the garage?”

  “Which one?” he asks dryly.

  I scrunch up my nose. “The first one. That was the first time I’ve ever shot someone.”

  He stares at me. “First time?”

  I nod. “I wasn’t sure I could do it. Stay calm, remember what Turner had taught me.” I shouldn’t have worried. The way I slid into the mindset I used whenever I did a job was easy. Frighteningly easy.

  Nick’s continued scrutiny makes me antsy, and I stand, pace away from the swings. This fear, more than my need to please my father, is the one thing that has the power to smash my soul into the dust.

  Every time I shut down to do what I’m paid to do, it’s a little harder to come back. Taking Isaiah out for good, and all the chaos and bloodshed leading to it, might break me completely. It could cement what I’ve always wondered.

  I’m not a good person.

  I don’t kill the bad guys.

  I just kill people.

  “Cassidy.”

  Schooling my face into a neutral expression, I face Nick on his swing. His face hasn’t lost the intense concentration. “Talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  He stands, the swing shuddering and jumping at the sudden movement, and strides toward me. He stops when he’s within touching distance, and I have to tip my head back to keep my eyes on his.

  “What’s going on in your head?”

  How do I tell him I’m afraid? As badly as I want to, I may never be able to walk away from this life because it’s too much a part of who I am.

  I curve my lips into a smile. There’s no need to worry about this right now. We have other things to deal with, other things to worry about. “Nothing important.” I take his hand, lacing our fingers together. “C’mon.”

  He dips his head, mouth brushing mine, the soft tenderness of the kiss jolting me out of the last dregs of darkness. “Ready when you are,” he murmurs.

  The remaining vet visits go off without a hitch. The fifteen vials of potassium chloride may not be enough, but I’m not in this alone. Nick and Constantine and the rest of Nick’s guys are in this war as much as I am.

  “How did Turner decide on vets?”

  “What?” I snap back to myself sitting in the passenger seat while Nick winds through the streets of LA, heading to our next destination, a new knife for me.

  “Veterinarians. How did he end up going to them for drugs?”

  “They already have them on hand. Vets have to euthanize pets on a regular basis. Hospitals and clinics might have some in their pharmacies, but since there’s so much scrutiny surrounding assisted suicide, the risk of drawing unwanted attention was greater.”

  We waste another half hour on random turns and half-empty streets. Nick parks in an alley somewhere in Culver City. It’s clean, trash bagged up or in dumpsters, with a few cars parked outside back entrances. Strangely, it doesn’t smell like an alley, either, as we step out of the car.

  Nick leads us to an unmarked door and pushes a buzzer next to the frame. There’s a click, and he opens the door.

  The interior is dim. Fuzzy shapes flit around in front of my eyes as I adjust to the darkness. A set of metal stairs is off to the right, and Nick starts up them, the metal creaking and clanking under his feet. They’d make a good alarm—no way for anyone to sneak up without being heard.

  The room at the top isn’t much brighter. A lamp in one corner casts a pitiful glow within a five-foot radius, but it doesn’t reach the top of the stairs. The room has no windows. On a battered couch is a painfully thin man. With his sunken cheeks and protruding eyes, he looks like he belongs in a hospice center. Thin tubing runs under his nose and over his cheeks, connecting to an oxygen tank next to the couch. Maybe my hospice observation isn’t so far off.

  Nick moves quietly to the couch, then bends to fold him in a careful embrace. “Elias. How are you?”

  “He’s about the same.” At the sound of the voice, I whip my head around fast and hard enough for something to crack in my neck. A second man, much larger and healthier than Elias, is in the corner, perched on a stool. He nods once at me before his attention shifts back to Nick. “Your girl?”

  “Cass, Theo. Theo, this is Cass.”

  Theo shifts to his feet and makes his way to a cabinet in the corner. He takes out a thick leather folio, brings it over, and lays it on the coffee table in front of the couch. I step closer, curiosity
overwhelming my wariness.

  “Kinda young for you, Dom.” Elias’s voice is little more than a rasp, painful to hear, and from the look on his face, painful to speak.

  I ignore the comment and take in the steel in front of me. Most of what’s laid out is meant for close work, thin blades tapering to sharp points, lengths varying from maybe three inches to almost a foot. I discard that one right off the bat; with the handle, the knife itself will be too difficult to conceal.

  I focus on the ones in the middle, the blades ranging from four to six inches long, the handles slender. I pick up a few to test their weight and, dissatisfied, put them down again. Nothing in front of me will work. I miss my knife. If it survived the fire, I’ll never know. The gas explosion incinerated so much; I haven’t thought to ask Nick if it was worth going back.

  I look up to find Nick and Elias both watching me, and I shake my head. “Nope.”

  Elias raises a brow. “No?”

  I stifle a wince at his rasp. “No. You know this. It has to fit. None of these do.”

  Theo snorts out a laugh and scoops up the folio. “Told you, Elias.” He puts it away and returns with a box. “If Dom’s bringing someone by, he means it. Don’t matter if it’s a girl.”

  He opens the box, and I lean forward. Two knives gleam in old velvet, the fabric worn through in places so I could see the wood of the box beneath it. The blades are each about six inches long, about an inch at the widest point. One blade has a nick in it. The points themselves are about a quarter-inch taper, long and pointed enough to do some damage.

  I pick one up and balance it. The handle is polished wood, smooth after years of use, with no chance of splintering. Curling my fingers around the knife, the hilt settles into my grip. I pick up the other, surprised when it slides just as easily into place.

  I don’t flip them. Don’t spin them. My hands absorb their slight weight, letting them become a part of me. These are better than the knife I lost, on par with the one I lifted off Josef.

  Elias has a blank expression on his face to counter the amused one on Theo’s. I put the knives in the box and close the lid before getting to my feet. “These ones.”