Game of Vengeance

by Amanda K. Byrne

  These blades will bring me Isaiah’s blood.

  Chapter 19

  Krav Maga is nothing like Wushu. I lost track of how many times my back slammed into the mat last night. But the brutal offensive style will help me take down men larger than me, something I’ve never attempted to do in my past jobs. Coupled with the Taser Nick handed me last night, I’m better equipped than ever.

  I hurt in places I didn’t know existed. Whimpering, I manage to get out of bed and stumble my way to the shower. The hot water doesn’t do much other than wake me up, and I resign myself to a day of sloth-like movement. If I’m lucky, the pain will mellow enough for me to go for a run this evening.

  “Cass? You gonna be ready soon?”

  I groan and turn off the water. No rest for the wicked. Emphasis on wicked.

  After pulling on clothes, I beeline it for Constantine’s kitchen and coffee. While Nick works, I’m supposed to pull as much information on the men Nick and Constantine believe are working for Isaiah and start tracking them to try to find the best place and time to strike. It’s much like what I’ve done before, with one exception.

  I’ll know their names.

  There will be names to go with the schedules and habits and residences and places of employment. There will be names to go with the faces.

  I try to drown the nerves fluttering in my stomach with coffee. Nick’s lounging against the counter, expression blank. “Okay?” he asks.

  “I hurt.” The coffee tastes like crap. “Did you make the coffee this morning?” I bring the mug to my lips and attempt to swallow more, but I can’t. The scent of over-boiled coffee wafts up from the sink as I pour the contents of my mug down the drain. “Next time, stay away from the coffee maker.”

  “Brat,” he mutters.

  “Yeah, but I’m your brat.” I work up a cheeky grin. He doesn’t return it. I let it fall away and blow out a breath. “What.”

  “I know how you work, love. This isn’t your normal. So I’m going to ask you again. Are you okay with the plan? Because I don’t want you doing something that’s going to break you.” He sets his cup aside. “C’mon. We’ll go find some real coffee.”

  Ensconced in the car, heading toward his office, I pick apart my response before answering. “You know what I thought the other day at the hospital? One of the nurses in the ER pointed out the restroom so I could wash my hands, and it occurred to me if I was anyone else, if I didn’t exercise my capacity to kill, I’d probably curl into a ball on the bathroom floor and never come out. I didn’t. I washed my hands and went right back to the waiting room.”

  Nick pulls into the lot of a cafe a couple blocks from Constantine’s condo. “I don’t know how I’m going to react once it’s all done. It’s scary,” I admit. “All the bodies that have gotten in the way in the last few months, not a smidge of remorse. Don’t know most of their names. Don’t know if they have families and friends who miss them and curse my name every day.

  “Marc…” My lungs squeeze painfully. “Marc is different.”

  We get out of the car. Nick comes around and cages me against the door. “Is it because you know his name, or because of how it happened?”

  Good question, one I should have thought of myself. Steven is the only other man I’ve killed within the organization, and his name and face don’t bring on the same gut-twisting guilt. “How it happened,” I say softly, staring at Nick’s chest. “Fuck, some days, if I let myself, I think I could fall so far down I’ll never want to get up. He wanted to die. He was waiting for it. The resignation in his eyes, how hopeless he looked, yet he was incredibly peaceful about the whole thing. I just wish—” I choke on the words, and I suck in air. “I wish I knew for certain if he’d ordered the hit himself or if it was someone else, if someone wanted him to die.”

  He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Does it matter?”

  “To Isaiah? I doubt it. I wielded the knife. I took the job, I could have walked away, and I chose not to. To him, that’s all that matters. To me?” I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe? It doesn’t absolve me of anything. He’s still dead, and I’m still the one who made him that way. But maybe knowing if he’d done it to himself would help.” I glance over at the door to the cafe. “I don’t feel much like coffee anymore.”

  Nick steps back and takes my hand. “I do.”

  The cafe is half full, mostly people standing around chatting or waiting for their orders. My stomach perks up a bit at the sight of the fluffy croissants piled high in the display case. Nothing like butter to cure a nervous stomach.

  We get in line and wait in silence, listening to the clamor around us. The door jangles open at our backs. I sneak a glimpse out of idle curiosity and wish I hadn’t because my stomach locks up tighter than Fort Knox. Tris steps to the end, two people between us, his gaze trained on the menu above the cash registers.

  Dammit.

  We have a plan. A workable one. Learn the schedules of all the men in Isaiah’s circle and take them all out in a single day. It’ll take a lot of planning, but the upside is no one gets tipped off and runs before we can catch them.

  Unfortunately, it also means picking them off one by one is out of the question. So Tris gets to live and follow me around for another day.

  We reach the front of the line, and Nick orders two coffees, despite my protests, a couple of croissants, and one of the giant chocolate cookies. “What’s the cookie for?” I ask as we move to the other side of the counter to wait.

  He kisses the top of my head. “You. You’ll get hungry around mid-morning and come looking for me. When you do, I’ll be able to placate you with a cookie.”

  I scowl up at him. “Placate me? Are you planning to piss me off?”

  “You’ll be pissed within a half hour of digging through names.”

  I swallow my growl and cross my arms over my chest. He’s right. Unfortunately. The days I spent chained to the desk in his spare office, combing through old files, beat out some of the days I spent cooped up in the library, trying not to fall asleep as I read through dusty books, searching for scraps of information necessary to complete a paper. Nick had walked in more than once to my grumbling.

  “It’s so boring,” I whine, barely resisting the urge to stamp my foot in protest. Nick just rolls his eyes and loops an arm around my neck.

  Our order comes up, and he grabs the bag and the drink caddy before we head to the door. He hands everything to me once I’m in my seat, then rounds the hood and climbs in behind the wheel. “So. Tris.”

  “Yup.”

  Nick laughs, and the sound loosens a few of the knots in my belly. “Was he around on campus the other day?”

  “Honestly? I have no idea. I was followed from your office to campus—black sedan, tinted windows—and it drove past when I pulled into a parking spot, but I couldn’t see who was driving. I have no idea if he was in the car. Since I was being followed so obviously, I didn’t think anything of it.” There’s no point in piling on more guilt. I’m starting to think if Isaiah wants to find a way to rattle me, he will.

  “Any more attacks on your guys?” It’s easy to forget the other side of Isaiah’s vendetta.

  “Not since Cory.” His tone is grim, his hands gripping the wheel hard enough his knuckles are white.

  He guides the car into the garage and parks near the stairs like always. We make it to the ninth floor without issue and split off to our separate offices.

  I haven’t been in this room since the stabbing. Didn’t spend much time in it to begin with, only a handful of days, so the wave of hurt surprises the hell out of me. I sat at that desk and dug through file after file, culling information that might help me identify who was trying to kill me and Nick, when all along, my would-be killer sat on the other side of the desk. He joked with me, made me laugh, showed concern, and tried to look after me. It wasn’t his fault that my guilt increased after hearing him talk about Marc. Isaiah’s grief over losing Marc is a suc
ker punch in the gut every time I think about it because it’s real. It might be twisted with this weird, sick need to push Nick off his pedestal, but his pain is genuine. The man cared about his cousin deeply.

  Whoever said suicide is a victimless crime is a liar. The ones left behind are the victims.

  I turn on the computer, spin the chair around to face the window, and stare blankly at the office building across the way. What would Denise say if she knew what I was planning to do? Better question, what would my father say?

  Turner wouldn’t say a damn word. He might nod, his eyes might glint with approval, but there’d be no words.

  Denise would tell me to go to the cops, the FBI, or some legal authority. While Nick didn’t bring it up when we were brainstorming the plan, the idea flitted through my mind more than once. If I go to the police, no one dies. I won’t add to the blood on my hands.

  But these are trained killers. They’ve played this game their whole lives, and they know what they’re doing better than I could ever hope to. To get the police to take action, and take it quickly, there would have to be irrefutable evidence.

  They’re not stupid enough to leave evidence behind.

  Nick won’t run. He may have gotten a boost from his father, but I don’t doubt he worked his ass off for it. He’s already made it clear he’s not leaving it for me. And maybe someday we’ll reach a point where I don’t want to be a part of this world, and we’ll break up.

  The thought makes me scowl at the window. Our best option is to kill everyone who wants to cause me or Nick harm. I will serve life a million times over if I’m ever caught.

  Obviously the solution is to not get caught.

  I spin back to the monitor and pull up the server portal I used the last time, then search the drawers for a pen and a notepad. My phone pings as I shut the empty bottom drawer, and I scoop up the phone to check the message on my way to Nick’s office. He’ll have something I can use, and I can steal the bag of croissants while I’m there. Birdies, meet stone.

  The text is from a number I don’t know, but I recognize the picture immediately. Neese and Charlie are entering the emergency room, the shot clear enough I can make out the worry on Denise’s face.

  Fear steals my strength, and I have to lock my knees to keep from falling. Isaiah knows where to hit. All the cool and grace I’ve exhibited under pressure flee at the thought of losing my best friend.

  I have to get her to leave. Today, if possible.

  I hurry to Nick’s office, knock once, and slip inside before he has a chance to answer. He’s on a call, and he arches a brow in question. I shake my head and sit in one of the chairs facing the desk, phone clenched between my fingers.

  He hangs up, and I set my phone in front of him. “I know she’s my weakness. It’s why Isaiah’s digging his dirty little fingers into the wound. He knows it’ll mess me up.” I suck in a breath, blow it out, imagining some of the tension draining away with the exhalation. “Can you help me get her and Charlie to Colorado today?”

  He studies the photo. “This was taken the other day?”

  “The day Scott was shot,” I confirm.

  Seconds drip down into a minute, two minutes, and Nick’s gaze never wavers from mine. “What does Turner have to say about weaknesses?”

  I sneer. “Eliminate them. The man doesn’t exactly practice what he preaches, though. My mother’s his Achilles heel. He’d do anything for her.” I don’t even rate a close second. The familiar ache swells and retreats.

  He taps the phone. “If Denise is out of the way, who would he go after instead?”

  Turner. He’d never get close, though. There’s a reason I didn’t need more than a few jobs to establish a reputation; I was trained by one of the best. “My mom, probably. But Turner can handle anything thrown at them.”

  He nods. “I can pull a few strings, get them on a flight out tonight if they can get to the airport.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, pathetically grateful. I pick up the phone and return it to my pocket. “Can I borrow your keys? I’ll head over there right now and talk to her.” I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t risk making her a party to my sins. I can tell her someone’s targeting me, and to rattle me, they’re going after the people I love.

  He pulls his keys out of his pocket and hands them over.

  “What do you do? With your weaknesses?” I ask.

  “Protect them by any means necessary.” His eyes glint with fury and determination, and more of the tension fades. I’m safe. If I’m safe, I can move and protect the ones I love.

  But who protects him?

  Rounding the desk, I drop the keys on the surface and cradle his face in my hands. “I am so glad I didn’t kill you like I was supposed to.”

  He laughs. “Same here.”

  Chapter 20

  The Westwood apartment I shared with Denise is nice, but Charlie’s is nicer. Of course, his parents pay his rent, so it would be. Whenever I visited in the past, though, the place was neat, but still had a thin layer of boy-clean over it. Clean yet not clean.

  Denise moving in has made a huge difference. The vacuum lines are still visible in the carpet. There are coasters. More than that, I see pieces of Neese everywhere, from the bright orange throw pillows on the couch to the fluffy chenille throw puddled in a nearby chair, its bright purple color cheery against the faded brown fabric.

  “Um. Wow. Would it be totally inappropriate of me to tell you how much better Charlie’s apartment looks?” I drop my bag by the front door.

  “I won’t tell if you won’t.” Denise leads me to the couch, and we sit. “Charlie will be back in a few minutes. What’s this about? Is Scott okay?”

  “I think so. I haven’t had a chance to call him. Nick was able to find out when he was released.” I link my fingers together in my lap to stop myself from tugging at my shirt hem. “When do you leave for Colorado?”

  She shifts on the couch, grimacing when the cushion squeaks under her. “Spring,” she says at my questioning look. “There’s a couple broken ones. We’re getting a new couch when we get back. We’re not leaving until Christmas Eve. It was cheaper, and that way we can spend some time with my family too. So don’t worry. We’ll still be around for your birthday.” She flashes a grin at me.

  I’d completely forgotten my birthday is in a few days. “About that.” My throat’s as dry as toast. “I haven’t been honest with you.”

  The open, expectant look on her face folds in on itself, leaving behind the careful mask she showed me at El Dorado. I hated it then, and I hate it now. “This is about Nick,” she says.

  “Not entirely.” I’d give my right arm for a glass of water. I swallow, trying to wet it and failing, almost choking on the lump forming. This admission is going to destroy what’s left of our friendship. “You were right about the wounds to my stomach and my throat. They weren’t random or coincidences. Someone attacked me, and before you go blaming Nick, he hasn’t done anything. It’s what I’ve done. He’s caught in my backlash.”

  Her brows draw together. “I don’t understand.”

  And I don’t know if I can make her understand without telling her the whole truth. I rub my lips together, staring at the wall over her shoulder. There’s a picture of Denise and Charlie, grinning like the fools in love they are. It’s almost identical to the first picture I’d been sent. My heart seizes, and I get up to study it in more detail.

  The picture’s not quite the same. The halo of light is missing, and there’s a palm tree in the background. But the way they look at each other… They’re each other’s it. There will never be anyone else for either of them. There is no doubt in my mind Charlie will do whatever it takes to protect Denise, and he’ll love her fiercely until the end of days. “There’s too much I can’t tell you.” Plausible deniability. She has to have it. “Just know that it’s dangerous, highly illegal, and there are people who would hurt you because you know me.” Gathering my cour
age, I face her, willing my fisted hands to relax. “I need you and Charlie out of the city by tonight. Nick can arrange to get you to Colorado early so you don’t have to change your plans.”

  There’s no color in her face. None. Denise has gone paper-white, blue eyes glassy and wide. “Neese?” I hurry over and drop to my knees in front of her. “Denise?”

  The second I touch her hand, she jerks, violently enough she kicks me in the thigh as she falls back. “How—why—?” She shuts her eyes and draws in a breath. “You’re involved in something illegal.”

  “Yes.” I rub my palm over my thigh.

  “And you won’t give me any more information other than it’s dangerous? God, Cass, I could have figured that out for myself. You were stabbed! You almost died. And you expect me to believe this doesn’t have anything to do with Nick?”

  The accusatory look she shoots me hurts more than any of the wounds I’ve received so far. Why? I’ve been lying to her for years. I knew if I said anything it would change our friendship.

  I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be Cass the Assassin with her, all ice and emptiness. But to get her out of harm’s way, I don’t have a choice.

  The shift inside me has never felt as physical as it does this time. I stand while I consider her point. “It doesn’t,” I say coolly. Isaiah would have come after me sooner or later. Hooking up with Nick just gave him new angles to play with. “If anything, Nick helped. If he hadn’t found me in the parking garage, I would be dead.” I glance at her, and my resolve falters at the shock on her face. “Are you going or staying?”

  That’s where Charlie finds us a few minutes later—Denise staring into space from her spot on the couch, me standing a few feet away, waiting for her response. “Babe? You okay?” He glances at me as he rounds the couch, brows raised in question. He sits next to her, the cushion giving way, and she slumps toward him on a gasp, face crumpling.