Beating Ruby

by Camilla Monk

  Then it went very fast.

  Coming from a street on our right, less than a hundred yards away, I heard an ominous roar. I saw Alex’s left hand tighten on the wheel while his right one reached for the gearshift, readying to fly us away from the trap. That goddamn black Mercedes rushed into view, racing toward us. My eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the impact with gritted teeth; it didn’t come. Alex swung the wheel, and we dashed into a small underground parking garage on our left, just before the guy could ram into us.

  We plunged into the darkened ramp and crashed through the barriers under the eyes of a panicked employee. I started feeling more and more like this was a terrible idea, and I think Alex knew it too, but I gathered we were momentarily out of options. A near-empty parking level came into view. The evil Mercedes didn’t seem to be following us, but I wasn’t so sure that was good news. I scanned our surroundings for some sort of exit. A surge of terror rushed through me when I realized that the only access to sublevel two was barred by a heavy steel gate.

  “Alex!” I gasped, even when a rational part of me knew that reminding him that we were trapped was perfectly useless—he knew it better than I did.

  He reached out to push my head down. “Stay down. It’s gonna be all right.”

  Too bad that the moment he said this, faint shocks came from under our wheels, as if we had just driven on a series of tiny bumps. I registered the sound of something flapping; the Corvette shook a little and slowed down. The tires. Something—someone?—had deflated them. Alex swore under his breath, and pulled hard on the brakes. My stomach twisted into knots when I saw him take out his Glock and arm it. A few seconds of thick silence ensued, our tense breathing the only perceivable sounds in that concrete tomb. I struggled to take big gulps of air, inhaling the stench of exhaust fumes permeating the air.

  Then that noise. The velvety purr of an engine slowly approaching. The black Mercedes was here. Blocking any possible escape. The chase had just been a way to bring us here. Right in the center of the spider’s web. I felt Alex’s hand graze my hair for an instant, the ghost of a caress, almost at odds with the cutting edge of his voice. “Don’t move.”

  A door opened. Footsteps on the cold concrete, echoing in the garage.

  I think the worst part was when I heard Alex’s breath falter. Or maybe it was his low hiss, through gritted teeth. “Fuck.”

  ELEVEN

  The Emu

  “A man is nothing if not the extension of his business card. Aim for entrepreneurs, doctors, lawyers: you’ll never be disappointed, because what they don’t have, they can buy anyway.”

  —Aurelia Nichols & Jillie Bean, 101 Tips to Catch Mr. Right

  The footsteps had stopped. The guy was probably standing a few feet away from Alex’s car. I assumed the Corvette’s windows had to be bulletproof and might be able to sustain some damage, since Alex gave no sign of wanting to leave the car, and our mysterious pursuer wasn’t making any attempt to shoot into the windshield either.

  A draw of sorts.

  Alex released a long breath that ended in a chuckle before his index finger settled on the gun’s trigger. “Baby, if we survive this, I’m having a missile launcher installed on this car.”

  Still down, I curled into an even tighter ball. “Don’t say we’re gonna die. And don’t call me ba—”

  “Get out of the car, please.”

  The voice was deep, calm, resounding in the garage with a familiar accent that reverberated through my entire body. In my chest something sweet and painful exploded.

  “March!”

  I lunged at my door handle, felt the brush of Alex’s fingertips as his hand reached out to stop me, but I tumbled out of the Corvette before he could. My feet bumped against the door’s threshold, causing me to lose what little balance I possessed. I landed face-first and hit my forehead on the ground.

  I was a little dizzy, and around me, everything felt blurry for a second. A pair of brown oxfords ran toward me, clapping on the dusty concrete. Spit-shined, impeccable, as always. Then the jeans, the black corduroy jacket—same kind as my grandpa’s—the immaculate white shirt. Not one fricking wrinkle. How did he even do that? And then I didn’t see anything, because I was in his arms, and he was holding me tight. He smelled of laundry and of those goddamn mints he munched all day long like a junkie. He was squeezing me a little too hard, but he was warm, and most of all . . .

  He was here.

  “Get the fuck away from her!”

  I looked up from March’s chest with a start, simultaneously taking in the look of fury in his dark blue eyes, and Alex, who now stood near the Corvette, his gun aimed at March. It looked like he’d shoot in the next second, if the snarl revealing white incisors was any indication. Still huddled against March, I didn’t miss the cool and hard object poking my right arm. Blood rushed to my temples. Whatever was going on here wouldn’t end well.

  I moved away from March, fighting the reflexive tightening of his fingers around my arms. His tongue clicked in annoyance as he let go, probably unwilling to risk bruising me. I struggled back up on my feet to shield him from Alex’s gun. Behind me, March had gotten up too, his hands brushing my hips like a discreet safety net.

  “Alex, don’t!”

  I saw Alex’s index finger tighten on the trigger. “It’s gonna be okay, baby. Get back in the car. Now.”

  “You don’t underst—”

  Air wheezed out of my lungs when a strong grip on my shoulder hauled me backward. I staggered, and before either Alex or I could react, March had moved in front of me, standing inches from the gun’s barrel. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Morgan. I assume there’s no need for me to introduce myself?”

  Alex’s lips twitched in a bitter smirk. “Your reputation precedes you. Now, I said: Get. The fuck. Away. From her.”

  All I really saw was the black corduroy adjusting itself on March’s right shoulder, that imperceptible shifting of his posture betraying the fact that he had reached the limits of his courtesy. Then his right arm moved in a blur, grabbing the Glock’s barrel without hesitation and spinning it. I remember breathing in, breathing out, and the gun was in March’s hands, its barrel pressing firmly between Alex’s eyes. Alex now stood pinned against the Corvette’s side, teeth gritted, eyebrows drawn together in a defiant glare.

  I lunged at March, gripping his forearm with all I had. “No! Please calm down!”

  “I’m perfectly calm, Island.”

  You know what’s the worst part? He was right. The muscles my fingers were digging into were hard as steel, and there was no way I could have prevented him from shooting Alex in the face had he meant to. But there was in fact no rage in his eyes, and he hadn’t even broken a sweat through the whole ordeal. Something else bothered me that I couldn’t quite place. It was only when he deliberately moved the gun away from Alex and thumbed a button near the trigger, causing the magazine to drop safely in his left hand, that I understood: ever since he had trapped us in that garage, March had made no attempt to draw out his own gun. I stared at him, my own hand still lingering on his sleeve as he handed a befuddled Alex his weapon back.

  At this point, it dawned on me just how bad the situation must have looked to Alex, what with me running into the arms of a guy who had casually disarmed him and held him at gunpoint. I let go of March’s arm, my initial shock giving way to confusion. “What’s going on? You were . . . You chased us!”

  “I was merely following you. Until Agent Morgan attempted to abduct you.”

  Agent Morgan—so he knew Alex already? I thought of that same black Mercedes parking behind us the night prior. Call it feminine intuition—I had no doubt it had been him all along, tailing Alex and me, in the shadows. And now he had come to my rescue, because he had learned I was in trouble and thought I was being kidnapped when Alex raced to lose him.

  I raised my palms in a pacifying gesture. “No, March, he was just—”

  Alex took a menacing step toward March. “What the hell
are you talking about? You could have gotten her killed! Is this some sort of joke for you?”

  “I’m known to have a limited sense of humor, Mr. Morgan,” March retorted coolly.

  Taking a step back, Alex placed a hand on my shoulder. “Listen to me. This is not the DCB, and I don’t give a shit about your résumé or whatever VIP treatment you think the Company owes you. She’s a person of interest in my investigation, and therefore under my protection—” His gaze slanted. “For obvious reasons.”

  March’s eyes never left mine as he answered Alex. “A person of interest? Is that what you call it, Mr. Morgan?”

  My throat tightened. If he had seen me with Alex last night, there was a subtext in that comment whose ramifications I didn’t want to explore . . . “It’s true,” I confirmed. “But it’s not like I really had a choice. Something happened at EMT. My boss is dead, and now I have to collaborate with them in their investigation. He wasn’t trying to kidnap me. I think—” My eyes darted to Alex. “I think there’s a lot of misunderstanding going on here.”

  A quiet fury seemed to return to March’s eyes. “There certainly is. Well, Mr. Morgan, perhaps it is time your mentor teaches you that there are rules to our business. Rules one does not breach without facing heavy penalties.”

  Rules? What did he mean by that? Also, what was that DCB thing?

  “Are you threatening me?” Alex asked flatly.

  “Call him,” March ordered.

  One of Alex’s eyebrows rose. “Call who?”

  “Don’t test me, Mr. Morgan.”

  My gaze kept traveling between the two of them as if I were in the stands at Wimbledon, and to be frank, I had no idea what they were fighting about. Who did they mean by “him”? The Caterpillar? Unlike me, Alex seemed to understand. His hand left my back to reach inside his jacket. He pulled out his smartphone and tapped the screen twice with his thumb. I heard one ring, and when his interlocutor picked up, he pressed the speaker to his ear, preventing me from eavesdropping any further.

  “Sir, we have a problem.” The tone was curt, matter-of-fact.

  I expected Alex to start reporting on his little racing contest with March, but on the other end of the line, the voice seemed to keep talking, and when it was Alex’s turn to speak, his left fist was clenched so tight the knuckles had turned white. “Yes. He’s here with us, sir . . . Sir, I don’t think . . . I . . . This is unexpected . . . With all due respect, sir, I should have been informed of this development . . . This is not . . . I understand . . . I understand, sir . . . I will.”

  After Alex hung up, he remained silent for a few seconds. His tongue darted to wet his lips, as if he meant to speak but couldn’t find his words. At last, he shook his head with an expression of utter disbelief. “Struthio Security? Really?”

  I looked back and forth between them. “Struthio? What’s that?”

  For the first time since our reunion, March seemed to relax; the gentle smile I had missed so much curved his lips, pinching two adorable dimples. “Phyllis and I have launched a new business venture in the security industry.” He paused and took a breath before reciting in a scholarly tone: “We provide high-end services to companies or individuals facing critical security issues and immediate threats to goods and personnel. Here’s our leaflet.”

  Alex stiffened when March reached inside his jacket to fish out two small brochures with an ostrich picture on the cover. He handed us one each with a self-satisfied nod. I looked down in perplexity at the document in my hands and started reading.

  The sales pitch informed me that “struthio” meant ostrich in Latin, and that this noble and peaceful creature’s sharp senses and brilliant intelligence, combined with a top speed of forty-three miles per hour—making it the fastest two-legged animal on earth—made for a perfect allegory of the high professional standards and nonlethal efficiency Struthio Security strove to achieve. Following were a bunch of technical paragraphs regarding the types of missions Struthio could undertake, along with a surprising amount of seemingly legit federal accreditations and quality certifications. The pitch ended with a detachable $20,000 coupon for new customers and the company’s contact information, including a website and their headquarters address in New York, on 111 Central Park West.

  I blinked at March several times, a strange warmth spreading in my chest. “You stopped—” My voice faltered. “What you used to do?”

  His eyes softened. “Let’s say I needed a change of air.”

  Alex stepped between us, holding the brochure in front of March accusingly. “But it’s not an ostrich on the cover. It’s an emu!”

  March’s jaw twitched in apparent irritation. “My PA suggested we experiment with a new commercial iconography.”

  I raised a dubitative eyebrow at the balding emu gracing the document’s first page, its creepy orange glare bearing promises of senseless violence and surprise butt sex.

  March glanced at the cover with a dejected sigh. “Phyllis liked the emu better.”

  “Whatever. This is grotesque. You won’t have me believe that a guy like you suddenly decided to turn into some kind of Good Samaritan,” Alex said.

  “Sadly, no one cares for your opinion, not even your own superior, it seems, Mr. Morgan,” March retorted with a smirk.

  Alex’s posture changed, shoulders squaring and heels digging into the ground. Cockfight, round two: coming up next on the Espionage Channel. I stepped between them and shot March a warning look. “Stop it. Both of you.”

  Confident I had their full attention, I turned to March. “I’m lost. What’s going on with you following us? Why did you tell Alex to call his boss?”

  He sent a pointed look in Alex’s direction before returning his attention to me. “Following the Ruby incident and Thom Roth’s . . . demise, Struthio was hired to protect EM Group’s best interests during the current investigation. I’m here to ensure that EMG’s money will be recovered at any cost, as well as to keep them updated on any progress made to this end.”

  My jaw went slack. “What the—”

  He cut me off with the ghost of a smile. “It is my understanding that Mr. Morgan already identified a prime suspect.”

  I glowered at him. “You people need to stop banging at my door every time something gets stolen somewhere on this goddamn planet!”

  “Well, I do see a pattern here . . .” Alex winked at me.

  “So do I.” March concurred. “Congratulations on being my first returning client ever, Island.”

  TWELVE

  Contemporary Romance

  “I need to know, Swanella. Do you love Djahkobh?”

  —Lory Deesire, Accidentally Married to the Billionaire Sheikh

  My fingertips were tingling. I could feel it again in my skin, just like that day in a deserted garage in Tokyo—the hot rush following the contact of my palm with his cheek, the lingering pain. That surge of emotional distress, inseparable from the physical relief after I had slapped March for having lied to me about his involvement in the Cullinan affair, lied to me about everything, from the very beginning.

  And God, I wanted to slap him again. Hard enough to wipe that little smile off his face. Congratulations on being my client again. Really? Fricking really? Not “Hey, biscuit, I missed you too,” or “Sorry I ditched you like an asshole, but now I’m back for you.” Nope. Just the good ol’ “How about I follow you around, but whenever you get too close, I’ll act like a douche and disappear?”

  Yeah. How do you like that, Island?

  My eyelids fluttered shut and I balled my fists, willing my composure back in a long exhale. When I reopened them, March’s smile was gone, replaced by a quiet watchfulness.

  “You know, you could have just e-mailed,” I gritted out.

  This was neither the place nor the time to have that conversation; we both knew it. March seemed to acknowledge the warning in my eyes. “Island and I need to sort a few things out. I suggest we do so on our way to lunch,” he said, at the same time that he pulled out
his smartphone and replied to an incoming text message.

  “Lunch?” Alex inquired, breaking his self-imposed silence.

  “We’ve been invited by my employer to discuss our new arrangement over a plate of sushi,” March clarified, raising the screen for us to see.

  I squinted at the terse message. It was signed “H. E.” As in . . .

  “Sweet Jesus! Hadrian Ellingham is inviting us to Mesa!”

  I felt Alex’s fingers wrap around my wrist. “There is no arrangement. And she doesn’t leave my sight.”

  March’s lips stretched into a threatening smile as he glanced at the silvery caltrops scattered on the floor that had destroyed Alex’s tires, then at his own black coupe. “Are you certain of that? Why don’t you find yourself a cab, Mr. Morgan? I’m afraid I only have one seat to offer.”

  I glowered at March. “Stop being like this. Let’s just find a solution—”

  “Island, you can’t go with that guy. You owe me an explanation!”

  The distress in Alex’s voice registered in my brain before the sharp pain in my arm. Around my wrists his fingers had tightened, cutting off my blood flow and digging into my skin. By the time I yelped, March had lunged forward and I saw his right hand fly past my shoulder and grab Alex’s throat. The grip around my arm eased immediately, and I staggered back in shock, just as March stepped forward, his face inches from Alex’s.

  “Never do that again, Mr. Morgan.”

  I panicked at the sight of his fingers digging into Alex’s skin. “March, please stop! He didn’t mean—”