Ruthless (Lawless Saga Book 3)

by Tarah Benner

  Killigen flashed a cold smile, and something inside Soren snapped.

  In one furious motion, he leapt to his feet and flipped the flimsy metal table into the wall. The black speakerphone in front of them crashed to the floor, and Killigen’s notebook hit the puddle of coffee with a slap.

  Neither agent had been prepared for Soren’s outburst, but they were on their feet in a second. Agent Cole’s hand went straight for his sidearm, but Killigen was standing with one arm outstretched.

  “Easy!” Killigen bellowed.

  Axel was the only one still seated. He was staring up at Soren with the horrified-yet-fascinated expression of a teenager watching a parent unravel.

  “Easy, Soren,” said Killigen, addressing him by name to draw his attention away from Agent Cole’s firearm. “Let’s just . . . talk about this.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” Soren snarled.

  “I think there is,” said Killigen. “Let’s not do anything rash.”

  His voice was low and calm, but that placid tone enraged Soren more than if Killigen had shouted.

  “Rash?” he bellowed, blood pounding in his ears. “My brother is dead. My mother is dead. Is this really the best you can do?”

  Killigen muttered something that Soren couldn’t quite hear. He seemed to be floundering for the appropriate response — some line he’d rehearsed to prevent a suspect from shooting a hostage or jumping off a bridge.

  “You call yourselves Homeland Security?” Soren yelled. “Where were you when that superstorm was headed for Texas, huh? If you’d warned them, they would have lived! Wasn’t anyone paying attention?”

  “The delayed response to the situation in Kingsville was a tragedy,” said Killigen. “But Kingsville was not the only town affect —”

  “I — don’t — give a shit!” Soren yelled, his throat burning with emotion. “If you people had done your jobs, none of this would have happened! My brother would still be alive! I could have gotten him out of there!”

  “I understand you’re upset —”

  But Soren’s brain was no longer absorbing outside information. The rage that had been simmering in his chest reached a hard boil, and he launched himself across the room.

  He wasn’t thinking. Part of him wasn’t even there. But as he leapt over the puddle of coffee, his hands wrapped around Killigen’s throat. Then his shins struck the leg of the upturned table, and he fell forward in slow motion.

  Soren landed on top of Killigen and pinned him to the ground. He threw out a punch, but Agent Cole was on him in seconds. Soren caught Cole with a wild back elbow that glanced off the agent’s jaw.

  Axel didn’t waste any time. He leapt out of his chair and blundered after them, but Agent Cole was too quick for him.

  Soren never saw what happened, but one moment Axel was gearing up for a wild haymaker, and the next, he was lying in a heap on the floor. Cole came at Soren again, and Soren felt an arm close around his throat. He felt the swell of Cole’s biceps around his windpipe, and as the choke cut off the flow of oxygen to his brain, he had the fleeting thought that he was about to go to sleep.

  Soren heard the muted crackle of voices over the speaker on the floor, and a second later, the door burst open. Two or three sets of boots pounded into the interrogation room, and a rough pair of hands seized Soren and forced him onto the ground.

  They smashed his face into the tile, and someone yanked his arms roughly behind his back. He fought and yelled and kicked and flailed, beating his body senseless as he thrashed around on the floor. The unknown agent manhandling him jerked his arms behind his back, and a second later, Soren was in an upright position being dragged toward the door.

  three

  Bernie

  Bernie had stopped checking the time. The clock on the dashboard was an hour off anyway, and glancing at it every few seconds was quickly driving her insane.

  Portia had flat-out refused to go anywhere near Soren’s old house until he and Lark had cleared the area, and so she, Bernie, and Simjay had stayed behind to wait until the coast was clear. It had been hours since Lark, Soren, and Axel had disappeared into the driving rain, and Bernie was starting to panic.

  Normally she would have gone after Lark, but she was still nursing a bullet wound from her botched escape attempt. She was using a pair of bent crutches, and she could hardly walk. She certainly wasn’t in any shape to go blazing through the ankle-deep mud.

  Part of her was terrified that Lark and the others had wandered into a trap. Several times, she’d started the car with the intention of flying through the rubble after them, but Portia had reached across the center console and killed the engine.

  The third time this happened, she confiscated the keys and told Bernie that she was being an idiot. The road was blocked by trash and downed trees, and the ground was soft and muddy.

  Portia was three months pregnant, but she was the only one who might have been able to push the car out of the mud if they were to get stuck. Simjay was still looped on painkillers after being stabbed and stitched back up.

  “Maybe they’re packing up Micah right now,” he said from the back seat.

  Bernie noticed that his voice sounded much less dreamy than it had earlier. It was low and weary, which probably meant that his meds were wearing off. He had to be in pain, but Bernie guessed that he was trying to stay alert. Simjay knew something was amiss.

  “I told you this was a terrible idea,” said Portia. “I don’t know why I let you people talk me into coming here.”

  “We came because of Lark,” Bernie snapped.

  She and Portia had formed an alliance after being detained in the San Judas medical center together, but she couldn’t deny that Portia was starting to grate on her nerves.

  “Just because Lark is stupid in love with that moron . . .” Portia muttered.

  “Soren’s not a moron,” said Simjay. “He’s careful. They’ll be all right.”

  “Well, I’m not waiting around to find out.” She turned to Bernie. “Switch me seats. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”

  “No,” said Bernie, slightly taken aback by Portia’s suggestion that she leave her best friend behind.

  They had a plan. Soren had made it clear that if anything went wrong, they were supposed to rendezvous at Dick Kleberg Park at sundown.

  “What the fuck is the matter with you?” asked Portia. “Lark left you, remember?”

  “I got shot,” said Bernie through gritted teeth. “She thought I was dead.”

  “Will you stop lying to yourself?” screeched Portia. “This best-friend-in-denial act is getting pathetic. Lark is a user. She doesn’t care about anybody but herself . . . and apparently her idiot thug boyfriend.”

  “Shut up,” said Bernie. It wasn’t the first time on their journey that she’d wanted to slap Portia, but it was the first time that she’d actually considered it. The taboo of hitting a pregnant girl was beginning to wear off.

  “You don’t know Lark,” Simjay chimed in, surprising both Bernie and Portia.

  “Oh, trust me . . . I know Lark,” Portia growled.

  “She didn’t abandon you,” he said to Bernie. “She really did think you were dead.”

  “Thank you,” said Bernie, simultaneously vindicated and surprised to have Simjay as an ally.

  They fell into an uneasy silence. Rain continued to pound against the windows as all of them tried to avoid stating the obvious: Lark and the others had been gone way too long.

  Even if they had found Micah safe and sound, they should have been back by then. The only logical explanation was that they had run into trouble.

  Maybe they’d gotten a flat tire. Maybe they’d been ambushed by a gang of hostile survivors holing up in an abandoned building. Or maybe the police had the place surrounded.

  Bernie felt paralyzed. Part of her was tempted to overpower Portia and steal back the car keys, but she knew it was useless. All they could do was wait until sundown and hope that Lark, Soren, and Axe
l showed.

  As soon as the clouds began to darken along the horizon, Bernie pried the keys out of Portia’s clawlike grip and started the engine. She coaxed the car through the flooded streets and followed signs along highway 77 to Dick Kleberg Park.

  The park was situated south of town along a small lake that had flooded its banks. By the time they reached the empty parking area, the rain had finally abated. There was no sign of their friends, but once it was dark, Bernie was confident she’d be able to see the truck’s headlights a mile away.

  Bernie and Portia got out and paced around the car until the last glow of light faded from the clouds. Simjay stayed in the back seat but rolled down the windows to cool off. The evening air was hot and sticky, and the dying light cast a grayish glow on the lake.

  Once it was dark, Bernie got back in the car without looking at Portia. She knew she’d have “I told you so” written all over her face, and Bernie didn’t think she could stand it.

  She began a slow circuit of the park, her eyes scraping the shadows for any sign of their friends. More than once they hit a soft patch of grass, and Bernie worried that they might drive straight into the flooded lake.

  They passed several muddy soccer fields, an overgrown baseball diamond, and a tidy pavilion situated on a concrete slab. Bernie drove until the sky turned pitch black and she could no longer see past the glow of the headlights.

  “I told you,” said Portia finally. “They aren’t coming.”

  Bernie licked her lips to keep herself from crying. Her hands were shaking, her throat was burning, and she desperately needed a drink of water.

  Panic and dread had been building up inside of her since they’d arrived, and the feeling had grown so strong that it was threatening to overwhelm her.

  “Something’s wrong,” said Simjay.

  Bernie let out a strangled gurgle as hot tears sprang to her eyes. She’d known something was wrong all day, and yet she’d kept telling herself that they’d all meet up at the park and everything would be fine.

  Everything wasn’t fine.

  But whether Lark and the others had been arrested, killed, or delayed at the house, she couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that if Lark hadn’t shown up, there had to be a good reason.

  “That’s it,” said Bernie, throwing the car into drive and pulling back onto the main road. “I’m going to Soren’s house.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” cried Portia. “When will you get it through your thick head? They left us here.”

  “Shut up!” screamed Bernie, surprising herself with her shrill outburst. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her hands were shaking, and her borrowed jeans were damp with sweat. She was at the end of her rope.

  “If you don’t cool it, I’m gonna dump your pregnant ass out on the side of the road and leave you to thumb a ride all the way back to New York,” she hissed. “Or whatever’s left of New York.”

  Portia just stared at her in shock.

  “Damn!” said Simjay. “You two are hot when you fight.”

  Bernie and Portia shared a disgusted eye roll and fell into uneasy silence. Bernie retraced their path back to where the truck had disappeared along the road, threw the car into park, and killed the engine. She wrestled her crutches out of the space between the seats and slammed the door on her way out.

  “What the hell are you doing?” yelled Portia, getting out of the car and squelching through the mud after her.

  “I’m going to find them,” said Bernie.

  “On foot?”

  “If I have to.”

  “Oh, don’t be stupid,” snapped Portia. “Get in the fucking car.”

  Bernie froze. She couldn’t believe that Portia of all people was going to help her look for Lark. Was this some kind of trick?

  “What if we get stuck?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Then we’ll make tech support back there push us out.”

  “That’s so racist,” came Simjay’s muffled voice.

  Bernie bit back a laugh. She still couldn’t believe that she and Portia were working together. She’d always thought Portia was a self-centered bitch who’d stab someone for a dinner roll, but here she was clomping around in the mud to keep Bernie from blazing after Lark on foot.

  She smiled to herself as she got back into the driver’s seat. She started the car and touched the gas, kicking up a spray of sludge. Bernie could hear the steady pelt of mud being flung off their tires as they rolled through the mess, following a pair of deep divots left by the truck.

  The tracks ended at the next paved road, but Soren had drawn them a map of the area back at the rooster house. Most of the roads were marked with battered street signs, but things got confusing when they turned onto a residential street that looked as though it had been flattened by a tornado.

  “Shit!” said Simjay, sitting bolt upright and letting out a yelp of pain.

  But Simjay needn’t have said anything. The second they turned the corner, Bernie knew that coming there had been a mistake.

  The street was swarming with official-looking vehicles. They were fanning out in all directions, and in the bright yellowish glow of their headlights, Bernie counted no fewer than a dozen men and women moving around the block. A few of them were wheeling carts toward a large white van with a government seal emblazoned on the doors.

  “Shit,” Bernie hissed, slamming on the brakes so hard that Portia had to throw out an arm to keep from face-planting on the dashboard.

  She flipped off their headlights and glanced around for Lark, Soren, or Axel. Bernie swallowed. There was no sign of them anywhere, apart from the red Chevy pickup with the telltale bull horns attached to the front.

  It was parked in the yard of a shabby one-story house. It had white vinyl siding, a dilapidated front porch, and a fallen-down basketball hoop in the front yard. It had to be Soren’s childhood home, and from the looks of things, no one had lived there in a while.

  “We have to get out of here,” said Portia, bringing Bernie back to earth.

  She nodded. With all the commotion on the street, no one had noticed them yet, but it was only a matter of time.

  The road was too narrow to do a U-turn, so Bernie pulled into one of the overgrown gravel driveways to turn around. As she did, one of the cars down the street pulled around the cul-de-sac. Its headlights fanned across the road and hit the government seal emblazoned on the white van: Department of Homeland Security.

  “Fuck,” Bernie whispered, cranking the wheel hard to the left to get back the way they’d come. She flipped the lights back on and hit the gas, and the engine groaned as the Camry struggled to pick up speed.

  Just then, an animal darted out into the road. Its eyes flashed in the headlights like two bright gold coins, and a surge of familiarity hit Bernie in the gut. She slammed on the brakes, and Simjay tumbled into the space between the seats.

  “What the hell?” cried Portia.

  Simjay groaned.

  But Bernie was already climbing out of the vehicle. She didn’t bother with her crutches. She just hobbled along on one foot, dragging her injured leg uselessly behind her. She was so shocked and breathless that she wasn’t very steady. She lost her balance and fell to the ground, her palms stinging as they scraped against the wet concrete.

  She bit back a whimper and locked eyes with the scared wet animal quivering in the road. For several seconds, they just stared at one another, and then the dog bounded up to her.

  Denali’s ears were pinned against his head, and he was whining loudly as if he were hurt. His eyes were wide and fearful, but as Bernie reached out a hand to touch him, his tail started to wag in relief.

  Fresh tears sprung into Bernie’s eyes as Denali’s wet, warm tongue scraped along the side of her face. Lark would never leave Denali behind — not if her life depended on it.

  He’d just confirmed Bernie’s worst fears: The feds were after them, and they’d captured her friends. Lark was gone, and Bernie had no clue how to get her bac
k.

  four

  Bernie

  Bernie sank into deep despair as rain began to pelt the windshield once again.

  Lark was gone. She, Soren, and Axel had been captured. It had probably been hours since their arrest, and there was no way to know where they’d been taken.

  “This is all my fault,” said Bernie. She was sitting in the passenger seat stroking Denali, who was sprawled across her lap.

  “How is this your fault?” shot Portia. “You told them that the feds were after us. We all knew it was dangerous, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “I should have stopped them,” Bernie muttered. “I never should have let this happen.”

  “You couldn’t have stopped them,” said Simjay in a hoarse voice. “No one could have stopped Soren from coming to find Micah.”

  “Doesn’t look like they ever found him,” Portia muttered.

  Bernie shot her a dirty look.

  “What? You saw that house. This whole town is fucked.”

  “It must’ve killed Soren,” said Simjay. “Finding Micah was all he ever thought about.”

  Portia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, it’s clear that he didn’t do much in the way of thinking before walking into —”

  “Will you stop?” snapped Bernie. “This isn’t helping! We need a plan.”

  “A plan?” repeated Portia, shooting Bernie a withering look. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Oh, come on . . . This isn’t some fucking endangered squirrel that you can hold a rally for. They were picked up by Homeland Security. Axel was probably on some homegrown terrorist watch list. And if we don’t get out of here, we’re gonna get caught, too.”

  “Lark is my friend,” Bernie growled. “My best friend. I can’t just abandon her.”

  “Like she abandoned you, you mean?”