by Meghan March
Besides, a text to Mount confirmed that it’s his man in a dark SUV that’s been following the cab since I got in it. Which means I have at least a thin layer of security.
“It’s fine.”
I cringe as I say the word. Fine. I hate it. It’s always full of shit. No one actually means they’re fine or something is fine when they say it. But today, I’m determined to be one step closer to whatever the hell fine really means.
“Your funeral,” he says as I shove cash through the Plexiglas divider.
The word funeral hits me like a cheap shot.
“Thanks a lot,” I mumble as I climb out and look down at the map on my phone as he drives away. I should be staring at the route, but all I can see in my mind’s eye is my brother’s casket being slid into a vault at the mausoleum. It took a decent chunk of my payment from that first sculpture I sold to Valentina to pay for everything, but regardless of how badly Rafe had screwed up in this life, he deserved to be honored in death.
Blinking back tears, I force myself to walk in the direction of the warehouse.
The dark SUV idles slowly behind me as I walk. Super covert. I snort-laugh to myself because it’s better than giving in to the tears that want to slip down my cheeks.
With every footstep, I brace myself for what’s coming next.
I can do this.
It’s just a building. That’s all it is. A pile of bricks and steel beams full of metal and lies.
I grit my teeth and keep pushing forward. When I stop in front of what appears to be the right building on the map—one with no address—I approach the door.
This could be it. I look over my shoulder at the SUV as it pulls into the parking lot of the building across the street.
What the hell does that mean? That I’m at the wrong building? Or that whoever is driving doesn’t want to draw attention by being parked in front of the right one?
My temper flares as I reach into my pocket and pull out the keys. I jab one into the lock and it slides home.
I steady myself before turning it. The bolt slides. With all my courage shored up, I twist the handle . . . and it doesn’t budge.
“Are you fucking kidding me!” I kick the door with one of my steel-toed work boots and instantly regret it as pain shoots up my leg.
“How the hell am I supposed to get in then, huh?” I yell the question to the universe, wanting to punch something next, but not dumb enough—or male enough—to do it.
That’s when I spot the box. It’s dark blue and it matches the overhead garage door. There’s a padlock on it, but no place to insert a key.
Great. Super-spy technology for the super-secretive hit man.
Fuck you, Kane. Every time I say his name, even in my head, another spike feels like it’s been jammed through my belly.
I’m not saying his name anymore. I’m done.
I grasp the padlock between my thumb and index finger. As I twist it from side to side, the shank opens.
“What the hell?” I unhook it from the box and look down at the flat front. It’s a fingerprint reader. And it knows my fingerprint.
He planned this too.
The knowledge is another fist to the gut that almost doubles me over.
He knew I’d come here without him. I bury the tears and betrayal and open the box to find a keypad.
Fucking great. Like I know some magic combination to get inside.
I don’t even know his goddamned birthday.
More pain.
Blindly, I punch in the only thing I can think of—my birthday.
The fucking overhead door moves. A single tear tracks down my cheek as more well in my eyes, blinding me to the beautiful cars inside as I slam the cover closed and relock it.
It takes everything I have to walk inside.
One foot in front of the other. Right. Left. Right. Left.
I have one destination in mind. The control box to lower the door and lock myself inside.
When the door touches the floor, I finally allow myself to breathe.
Mistake.
The familiar scent of motor oil, brake dust, and exhaust fills my nostrils, and a pang of longing hits me hard enough to make my knees wobble.
By force of will alone, I stay upright.
I scan the bodies of the four-wheel drives I was in lust with before, and realize I was wrong.
I can’t do this.
Not today.
Not even a little bit.
I need to get in my Bronco and get the hell out of here as fast as I possibly can before I lose all the ground I’ve gained.
My Bronco is parked facing the overhead door on the opposite side of the warehouse. I sprint for it, ignoring the fact that I’m losing the battle with my tears. One after another, they hit the floor as I dodge mirrors and bumpers.
I wrap my hand around the door handle and yank it open, climbing inside like I’m being chased by snarling wolves . . . or memories I can’t face.
I throw myself into the seat and close my eyes, congratulating myself on a narrow escape from letting him break me again.
Until I open my eyes and see a piece of paper on the passenger seat with familiar bold handwriting.
* * *
I’m sorry. It had to be this way.
* * *
Agony tears through me like the ragged edges of metal.
“Don’t you fucking apologize to me, you coward! How dare you apologize to me!” My scream echoes through the whole warehouse.
I grab the piece of paper, crumpling it in my hand, and shove the door open again.
“You don’t get to apologize for lying to me over and over again and killing my fucking brother!”
As I scream like a woman possessed by demons she’ll never escape, that moment my world ended comes rushing back in vivid clarity.
One month and a few days earlier
One moment Kane’s hand is empty, and the next, he’s holding a gun and it’s pointed at Rafe.
He pulls the trigger.
Chaos explodes as a deafening shot echoes in the lobby of the airport. Everything goes quiet in my mind when I see Rafe grab his chest, a look of shock on his face as the fabric of his suit darkens with blood.
I can’t hear myself screaming.
I can’t hear anything.
Another gunshot shatters every dream I had for the future as my brother’s body jerks again before he collapses, lifeless, on the carpet.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
Blood. So much blood. Everywhere.
“No!” I scream, jerking my head to look at Kane, but his face is expressionless. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I’m making this up.
Someone tackles me to the floor just before another shot rings out and pain explodes in my head. With my cheek pressed to the carpet, my vision goes blurry as another body hits the floor beside me.
Kane.
No longer expressionless, Kane’s face is contorted with agony. He clutches his chest the same way Rafe did, and his eyes roll back in his head.
His lips move, and I swear he utters two words.
“I’m sorry.”
Another wave of anguish rips through me as I watch the man I love die.
“No! This can’t be real! Kane can’t die!” My lips move, but I don’t make a sound.
When everything goes black, I don’t care if I ever wake up again.
9
Kane
About eight weeks earlier
Ransom started a fucking shit show all because of pussy. It always comes back to pussy. I told him to steer clear of Magnolia Maison. Tangling with her is about as smart as carrying around a black widow on your shoulder like a fucking parrot.
Actually, a black mamba would be more accurate. Her history is littered with the dead bodies of men who thought they could tame her.
Ransom might have actually had a chance, because I’m pretty fucking sure she’s hooked on him, and yet somehow, she still managed to drag him into the line of
fire. And now his sister is in the crosshairs.
Fuck you, Ransom.
The woman asleep in my bed will not pay for her brother’s bad judgment. Not while I’m still breathing.
But I can’t tell him how fucking pissed I am at him until I can get in contact with him. Right now, my messages on the dark web aren’t being answered.
I’m guessing that wherever he is, he doesn’t have an internet connection. Even if he did, the man barely checks his regular email, let alone the dark web.
Ransom works old school—through word of mouth and referrals. Generally, he only takes jobs he knows are solid from clients who won’t end up fucking him over.
But then you introduce the most powerful drug in the world—pussy. That’s why we’re in this situation.
I pull out my phone and call Magnolia. She doesn’t answer until the fourth ring.
“This better be important.”
“You think I’d fucking bother you if it wasn’t?”
“I’ll hang up if you cop an attitude with me, Saxon.”
Magnolia knows me by my alias, and she knows what I do. Shows just how bold she is that she doesn’t care. Or maybe she just knows I won’t take out a woman.
She’s right. I have lines I won’t cross, and that’s one of them.
“You hear from him?” I don’t have to tell her who I’m talking about.
“Not since he said he was going dark.”
“You get any other information on what we’re dealing with? There’s gotta be a good fucking reason he wouldn’t deliver on time.”
She goes quiet on the other end of the line.
“You better tell me every goddamned thing you know right now, Magnolia.”
“It’s bad. Real bad.” Her voice is a whisper. For a woman who’s seen what Magnolia Maison has seen—and done what she’s done—to say something’s real bad, it has to be really fucking bad.
“Tell me.”
“I didn’t know.” She sounds like she’s choking it out.
“Fucking tell me.”
“They’re running human cargo.” Shame drips from her words as my blood turns to ice.
“Fuck.” I rise from my chair and grip the back of my neck with my free hand. “Tell me you’re fucking kidding me.”
“I wish I could. I didn’t know. I would never have hooked him up with the job if I’d known. You know—”
“I don’t know shit, woman. You sell pussy. Why the fuck should I think you’d stop short of human trafficking?”
There are some people I truly fucking hate in this world, and one category would be human traffickers. Scum of the earth, and every single one of them deserves the fate they subject others to.
“I didn’t know! I would never. You have to believe me. I’ve been sold. I wouldn’t do that to someone I hate, let alone someone I’ve never met. Please, Saxon. You have to help me fix this.”
I tilt my head back to stare at the beams above me. “This is fucked, and you know it. Ransom wasn’t gonna smuggle people. You set him up for this. Was that the plan? Did you want him dead?”
“No! I love him!”
“Jesus fucking Christ. Like I believe you.”
“Then don’t believe me. Just find him before they do.”
I almost tell her that the people she hooked him up with are already paying me a half million to bring him in dead or alive, but I don’t. Magnolia can’t be trusted. She’s proven that.
Instead, I say, “Call me if you find out anything at all. You understand me?”
“Only if you do the same.”
“Agreed.” I hang up the phone with the lie still hanging in the air, knowing I’ll have to deal with her sooner or later, but I can always hope for later.
Because right now, this entire fucking game has changed. Magnolia set Ransom up to traffic human cargo, and that explains why they want him dead.
He didn’t deliver. He won’t be delivering. Knowing Ransom, he’s already let every single one of those poor fucks go with cash in hand to make their own way in the world.
And in doing it, he left himself and his sister wide open.
I glance up at the monitor to the left and fix my gaze on the spill of dark hair on the pillow as Temperance curls toward my side of the bed.
How the hell am I going to climb between those sheets and breathe in the sweet scent of her skin and be able to fall sleep, knowing she’ll never be safe until I put them all in the ground?
I can’t.
I need a plan.
Neither she nor Ransom will ever breathe easy while a single person involved in this mess lives to order them dead.
I can’t believe Ransom would run now, though. He has to know they’ll come for her if he does. He might have questionable morals, but he’s not a complete piece of shit. The fact that he wouldn’t deliver human cargo is proof enough of that. There’s no way he’d let his sister pay for his mistake.
No, he knows I’m covering his ass. We made a deal a long fucking time ago. If anything ever happened to me, he’d cover my mom, and if anything ever happened to him, I’d watch over his sister.
Well, Ransom, I’m watching over her. I just didn’t plan on getting hooked on her.
I never should have touched her at the club. As soon as she walked through the door, I knew it was some kind of setup, but watching the unholy temptation that was Temperance Ransom made me not give a shit. I was willing to take the risk because I can handle whatever anyone throws at me. Now, if I had to put money on who set it up, I know exactly where I’d put it.
On Magnolia.
One more reason I don’t trust her. She always has a hidden motive, and now I’m starting to see it. She wanted me with Temperance because she knew I’d move heaven and hell to save her brother.
After a few more moments of watching Temperance sleep, I tear my gaze away from the monitor. I have more work to do before the sun rises.
10
Kane
About five weeks earlier
Seeing Temperance in jeans and an old T-shirt, with her hair up in a bandana and her hand on the throttle of the airboat, is a hundred times more devastating than watching her work in those sexy little skirts and blouses.
This woman truly doesn’t realize what she brings to the table. She’s beautiful, but not afraid to get her hands dirty. She’s a hard worker, but rarely lets anyone see just how brilliant she is. It didn’t take me long to realize she’s the whole fucking package.
And what the hell am I supposed to do with that information?
I’m withholding more from her than I’m telling, but keeping her in the dark is the best way to keep her safe. And right now, that’s all that matters. That’s all I can let matter.
The thought of anyone trying to extract information from Temperance—or putting a single mark on her skin—sends me into a rage strong enough to tear this boat in half. I would do anything to protect her. Anything.
She sends us skidding around another bend in the bayou, and against all odds, I smile. It’s not something I did much before I met her, but Temperance brings it out of me.
She backs off the throttle for a beat and points. “There. Up ahead. See it?”
My head swivels in the direction she indicates, and I reach for the .45 tucked in the back of my jeans. It fits in my hand like I was born to hold it, and maybe I was.
Maybe I was born to hold Temperance Ransom too.
I push the thought away. Right now, I don’t know what the fuck kind of trap her brother might have rigged here.
He’s a bayou boy through and through, and it wouldn’t surprise me to find he’s got World War II claymore mines rigged to trees to blow our fucking heads off.
“Approach slowly,” I tell her, and she gives the boat just enough gas to keep it moving forward.
“It’s not like they won’t hear us coming.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” I raise the gun in front of me, ready to pick off anyone who might have gotten here before us.<
br />
“Don’t shoot my brother.”
“If he shoots first, I make no promises.”
I say it, but I don’t need to. Ransom isn’t going to be here. There’s no way. Not with how fucking loud this boat is and how easily Temperance was able to find it. Ransom knows his ass is on the line, which means he’s going to be somewhere a hell of a lot harder to find. I don’t want to tell his sister that, because crushing her budding hope feels too cruel.
Toughen your ass up, Savage.
I shake my head, but she doesn’t see. When it comes to Temperance, I’ll never be tough. And that’s probably what’s going to get me killed.
We search the cabin, discovering a note in some gibberish only Temperance can read.
* * *
Don’t look for me.
* * *
Like that’s going to happen, you fucking dick.
Ransom isn’t naive enough to think what he did doesn’t have consequences. The scent of cooked food hangs in the air, so he hasn’t been gone long. I don’t need to touch the ash in the metal fire pit to know it won’t be ice cold.
Now I just need to wait for Temperance to turn her back on me for a moment, which she does as she walks toward the door of the cabin, admitting defeat.
It still amazes me she’ll turn her back on a hit man. But she doesn’t see me as that man. I never want her to see me as that man.
I crouch next to the woodpile and see a scrap of paper. A note from Ransom.
* * *
Shit got fucked. Laying low. Don’t fail me now.
* * *
I shove it in my pocket and tuck a burner phone into the bundle of wood. There’s only one number programmed on it, so there’s no question of who he needs to call. As soon as he turns it on, he’ll see a text waiting.
* * *