Game of Vengeance

by Amanda K. Byrne

  “So we’re stuck here for an indefinite period of time.” I chew on my bottom lip, turning my phone over in my hands. Line after line of code sprawls across the little box, seconds ticking away as my mother sits in some anonymous space, bound and gagged and furious. From what Nick’s said, the query is doing most of the work. “If you had an extra set of hands and eyes, would it go any faster?”

  He shakes his head, staring at the screen. My phone buzzes again, and I almost drop it. I forgot I’d taken it out for a reason.

  The emptiness, the cool, precious emptiness, threatens to flood with rage. With fear. With everything I can’t afford to feel right now.

  You’re not cooperating, and I’m bored.

  7058 Huntington.

  Attached is another picture of my mother. There’s blood on her face, and her eyes are swollen shut, her hair matted and sticking to her forehead. The background’s the same, industrial gray. Either he’s playing with us by taking the time to manipulate the photo so it looks like it’s been taken somewhere else, or my mother really is in the warehouse in Long Beach and he’s just texted me the address.

  My lungs are on fire, and my phone falls to the floor with a clatter. The room’s too small. There’s no air. I grope for the desk, the rage creeping in. “Nick.”

  He spins toward me and grasps my wrists. “Cass. Breathe.”

  Breathe. He reaches up and cradles my face, dark eyes intent. I gasp in air, and the burning eases some. His gaze is steady, calm, bringing me back to the cool emptiness. Another breath, and I nod. “Is this the address of the place in Long Beach?”

  After another long minute, the burning fades completely, and Nick scoops up my phone, right as the computer beeps behind him. He glances at the monitor. “Shit.”

  Chapter 26

  “The photos don’t match,” he says, scanning the accompanying code. “We would have caught it eventually. I don’t know if there’s enough left in the footprint to recover the original background.”

  The likelihood the warehouse in Long Beach isn’t the address I just received increases a thousand-fold. “Does it really matter anymore? He’s sent us an address. Isaiah’s bored. Boredom doesn’t bode well. Even if there’s no one there, there’s something he wants us to see. We need to go.” My hands are trembling. I fist them and push them into the desk.

  Isaiah’s getting what he wants. He’s snapping all my constructs one by one, dismantling the very structure that enables me to kill without compunction. Don’t let your emotions dictate your actions, Cass. Turner’s voice in my head, telling me to hold on. Stay calm.

  The most effective way to help my mother is to keep that shit locked down.

  Nick shoots me a look that says are you done? And strangely, it helps. The faint condescension and derision mean so much more than any platitude he could offer. “If I can uncover the original background of the photo, that may give us a starting point when we search whatever building this is. It’ll take a little while, but I can use that time to find the property, possibly building schematics, or blueprints.”

  I nod, and Nick passes over his phone. “Call Con and tell him to get in here.”

  I ignore his phone and use mine, scrolling through my contacts until I find Constantine’s number. Nick’s muttering to himself, his fingers racing over the keyboard, so I circle the desk and sit in one of the chairs on the other side.

  Constantine answers on the second ring. “Cass. Still trying to locate your father.”

  I’d forgotten neither of us had bothered to tell him it wasn’t worth the time. “If he wants to be found, you’ll know. Sorry to waste your time. I need you to come in. Isaiah’s taken my mother, and Nick needs some help.” Nick grunts and stops typing long enough to flip me the bird.

  “I’m in North Hollywood. Give me twenty minutes.” He hangs up, and I lower my phone to my lap with a frown. North Hollywood. Turner’s office isn’t anywhere near there, which makes me wonder what Constantine’s doing in that neighborhood. Instinct sits up and kicks me in the ass, telling me to pay attention, but Constantine’s whereabouts aren’t of primary concern.

  The computer beeps quietly, though Nick’s fingers don’t stop moving. “Address is north. Encino.”

  I can’t do anything with that information. Not yet. Frustrated, I pull out my phone and call Turner. Unsurprisingly, it goes straight to voicemail, and I disconnect without leaving a message.

  The waiting is this insidious, toxic sludge, seeping in through unseen cracks. The longer I sit here, unable to do anything, the wider those cracks get. There’s no doubt in my mind I’ll be able to kill Isaiah on sight or that anyone who steps into my path will end up dead.

  I’m just afraid I won’t be able to stop.

  That I can feel fear, that I’m pacing and jittery, that I’m anything other than a sleek, efficient machine is disturbing. It’s like there’s a glitch in my system, and I can’t reset it. I get to my feet and resume pacing. It’s better than nothing.

  Constantine arrives, muttering something about traffic. Nick hasn’t stopped working and merely nods in response to his cousin’s greeting. Constantine sets a laptop on the desk, pulls up one of the chairs, and logs into something with a few keystrokes, officially making me completely and utterly redundant.

  It’s fifty steps from one side of the room to the other. One foot in front of the other, over and over. Fifty steps. Turn. Fifty steps more. Turn.

  I’ve never worked with a partner before. Never thought to use anything other than what I could readily access without digging beneath the top layer. Nick’s methods might work for him, but mine have yet to fail me. If I wasn’t so focused on trying to keep myself from raging out of control, I would have remembered that sooner. Encino. I have an address, a vague location. I take out my phone, type the address into Google, and click on images.

  The address—7058 Huntington—is a house. A large, rambling house, sprawling across the property with little thought to efficient planning. I enlarge the image as much as I can, note the side entrance and the alley running behind the house. It’s in the middle of the block, the houses on either side neat and tidy, at least in the picture. I need to get out there. I do my best work on the ground. I have to see for myself what I can use and what I should avoid.

  I have an address, a location, and a picture, and they’re sitting over there with their computers dicking around for information we don’t actually need. Nick keeps a spare set of keys to the car in his desk drawer. He locks everything, but locks are easy to pick.

  “Cass?”

  I fight the urge to shove my phone into my pocket like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Yeah?”

  Nick waves me around the desk. “Managed to uncover some of the background.”

  I lean into the monitor. The picture Isaiah sent of my mother is blurred and pixelated in places. Small patches of some dingy, indistinct color are interspersed with the gray of the warehouse. “A basement?”

  “Possibly. Either a basement or a space with little light. Those patches would be brighter if there were uncovered windows.” He minimizes the picture and brings up a map. “Street doesn’t see much traffic during the day. I haven’t located the county records yet.” A muscle jumps in his jaw, brows drawn tight. “They should have come up first thing. Either they’ve been scrubbed or buried deep enough that locating them will take time.”

  “What’s in the records?” I have to get out of here. Now.

  “Usual information—placement of gas and sewer lines, previous owners, and sale prices. Some will have the original builder’s floor plans. That’s what I’m hoping for.”

  He can keep his floor plans. The images I have might not be complete, but they’re enough to go on for now. I nod and step back from the desk. “I’m going to get some water. Need anything?”

  “I’ll take one.” Constantine doesn’t look up from his computer.

  Nick closes a hand around my wrist. “Anothe
r ten minutes,” he says quietly. “Fifteen, tops.”

  That’s ten to fifteen minutes my mother might not have. I shake my head. “Now. We go now, Nick. I don’t need any of this information. Neither do you. We don’t have time for an elaborate rescue set up. Whatever information I can’t pull off Google Earth, I’ll get when I’m in front of the house.”

  His grip tightens as I try to pull free. “That additional information could save your life and your mother’s. Floor plans will tell us if the house has been modified in anyway, if there’s any entrances that we might not be able to see from the street, and if we can get to them without being seen. Ten minutes,” he repeats. “You go into this without a firm plan in place, you could end up incapacitated or dead. I want to help you get your mom. I need you to stay alive.”

  “None of that matters. You can see all of that from the street. We split up, approach from different directions. We know he’s expecting us, so we’re not completely blind.”

  “Actually, we are.”

  I glance over at Constantine. He shoves a hand through his hair. “Someone expects you to show up, you have to be doubly cautious. He could have the entire house rigged to blow. He could have his men hiding in places we don’t know about, ready to kill on sight. This isn’t your standard recon mission, Cass.” He scowls down at his laptop. “Though if we don’t find more information soon, we may have to do what you’re thinking and go in anyway.”

  “If they’re public records, you should have been able to find them by now, right? Unless they aren’t online?”

  “In theory.”

  Theory’s good enough for me. “Nick, if you don’t hand over your keys right now, I’m calling a cab.”

  The computer beeps, and he ignores it, his hand still around my wrist, dark eyes intent. Some unknown emotion flits across his face, then settles into resignation. “C’mon.”

  Finally.

  The drive out to Encino drags on, made longer by stoplights, heavy traffic, and construction on one of the main routes, necessitating a detour. Almost two hours have passed since Isaiah’s text, and I’m all but vibrating in my seat, ready to spring out of the car and attack.

  One good thing from all the work Nick and Constantine put in, the street really is as deserted as they said. Nick parks several blocks away, and the two of us slink down the alley running behind the house while Constantine positions himself between two houses, standing in the alley that bisects the other side of the block. Even with a pair of binoculars, he still has a less than stellar view of the front door. I expect sirens any minute; a strange man standing in an alley with a pair of binoculars would give anyone cause for alarm.

  Nick’s Bluetooth earpiece blinks a steady, even blip, and his murmured “Got it” is low enough I wonder if Constantine heard him. “No movement in the front of the house that he can see,” he says. We’re coming up on the neighbor’s garage. We pause behind it, and he turns to me. “You ready?”

  He insisted I use the gun. I pull up my shirt and unholster it from the small of my back, check the clip, and flick off the safety. Nick creeps forward until he’s reached the far corner of 7058 Huntington’s garage, peeking around the corner. I force myself to stand there and wait for him to signal me to move toward him.

  The yard is empty. So empty I expect to see tumbleweeds bounce past. I brush past him and walk onto the porch, the steps squeaking under my feet.

  When the back door swings open at the barest touch of my hand, I slide to the edge of the doorway and duck, prepared for gunfire. There isn’t any. The kitchen is as empty as the yard, only instead of tumbleweeds there’s a thick layer of dirt and dust over every surface. Thick enough I can make out a set of footprints leading away from the door.

  I follow them from the kitchen and nudge open the first door I come to. It’s a small bathroom with mold spots on the wall and rust stains in the sink. It’s also empty. Maybe the whole place is, and we’ve been played.

  The next room is not.

  It’s the dingy, closed-off room in the photo, what little light there is sneaking in around the edges of the blackout curtains hanging on the window. Mom’s tied to a chair in the center of the room, dried blood on her face and a thick piece of duct tape over her mouth. Her eyes have swollen shut. Strands of hair trail across her cheek, sticking to the tape.

  There’s no way to get the tape off without causing more pain, so I grab a corner and peel it away, ignoring her moan. I glance at Nick, standing in the doorway, and re-holster my gun to free both hands. “Mom?” I whisper, brushing the hair off her cheeks. “I’m here. We’re leaving.”

  “Cass.” My name is barely a sound, and I lean in closer. “Your father—”

  “He’s probably fine. Looking for you.” I move around to the back of the chair and pull the knife from its sheath. They used those zip-tie things on her wrists, tight enough the plastic digs into her skin. I grit my teeth as I slice through it, nicking her arm in the process. “Sorry. Can you stand?”

  Her head lolls to the side, and I come around to cup her under the elbows. “Your father’s here.” Soft words, pushed out through raw, bleeding lips.

  They must have really messed her up if she believes Turner’s here. “He’s not, Mom, but I am. Nick and I can help you out to the car.”

  She shakes her head with a sudden violence, hissing in pain at the movement. She sits down hard. “He’s here. They brought him in to see me. I heard him. He’s here, Cass.”

  The first surge of fear rushes into the blank space, my hands trembling with the force of it. I slip the knife back into its sheath and reach for my gun. Catching Nick’s eye, I jerk my head to my mother. “Get her out of here.”

  I slip past him and out into the hall, not bothering to muffle my footsteps as I approach the living room. There’s no point. If there’s anyone left in the house, they already know we’re here, and they didn’t stop me from going to my mother.

  Which means Mom isn’t the target.

  Turner is.

  He’s tied to a chair in the middle of the living room, arms twisted behind him, his legs bound to the chair. Isaiah has a gun to his head and a sick, sick smile on his lips. “Glad you could finally join us, Cass.”

  I drop my gaze from that smile to Turner’s face. Blank. Even outgunned and facing his own death, he won’t show emotion. “Cassidy. Go to your mother.” Cool, calm, like nothing unusual has happened. A typical Turner reaction.

  My feet have turned to cement. They got him. They got the drop on my dad. On Caleb Turner. The Ghost, the man who couldn’t be taken, couldn’t be caught, who is feared. “Turner?”

  “Cass. Go.”

  I stare at him, his blue eyes hard and cold. The gun bumps against his head, and he winces.

  Winces. Turner doesn’t feel anything. Doesn’t show anything. “Dad?”

  Click. Cool metal presses against my temple, and I jerk away. An arm wraps around my waist, holding me still. Like I’m going anywhere. I can’t get my feet to move. I can’t lift my arm to fire at Isaiah’s head. He’s right there, ripe for the plucking, and I’m paralyzed.

  “Cass.” His whole face softens, and for the first time in over a decade I see the father I loved when I was a little girl. “Cassidy, leave. I love you.”

  An explosion.

  A spot of red, blooming in the middle of Turner’s forehead.

  More red, running down his face, covering his nose, his mouth, his eyes truly blank.

  Screaming. Lots of screaming.

  My father slumping forward.

  “Daddy!”

  Chapter 27

  Nature’s a cruel mistress. It should be overcast, slightly chilly, with some rain thrown in to make it interesting. Instead, the sun’s shining like a spotlight, and the temperature’s climbed to an unseasonably warm seventy-five degrees. A sick joke made all the more ironic for the cold, remote nature of the man we’re burying today.

  Mom’s a mess. In the week since
we found her at the house in Encino, some of her injuries have started to heal. The swelling around her eyes has gone down, and her lips are no longer chapped. But she’s not sleeping or eating, and the swelling’s been replaced by dark circles and heavy bags, bleeding into the hollows carving out her cheeks.

  Her black dress hangs on her like a garbage bag. I went shopping for it without her and got the wrong size. She’s refused to leave the house until today. Funeral arrangements, phone calls to the insurance company and Mom’s firm, dealing with Turner’s coworkers has all fallen to me.

  I can’t call him Dad. He’s Turner. He’s been Turner for years.

  That single, horrifyingly bittersweet moment is always there, every time I shut my eyes. I hear it as I’m falling asleep, as I’m waking up. I love you. It whispers to me throughout the day. Every time I hear it, another piece of Cass the College Student crashes and shatters into a million pieces.

  I am not her. I will never be her again.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”

  No casket. Practical Turner, outlining what he’d wanted. Cremation, and his ashes to be spread out in the Joshua Tree National Park. Mom’s barely upright, leaning on me so hard if Nick wasn’t on my other side holding me up, I’d be sagging under her weight. There are far more mourners than I expected. Denise and Charlie are somewhere toward the back, along with Scott. Tori’s with him, and that makes me smile, despite everything. Lia and a tall guy with dark red hair and brown eyes. Noah, most likely.

  Andreas and Malena. Constantine, his parents.

  Tris, lurking behind a nearby tree.

  And Isaiah. He’s waiting in the distance, giving me this chance to say good-bye. He knows I won’t kill him here. The arrogant motherfucker.

  He walked right out the front door because I’d been too busy screaming and begging my dad to come back to life, and Nick had already escorted my mother out of the house. Constantine claims he saw Isaiah but couldn’t get to him in time.