by Angel Lawson
When he’s sure no one is watching, he casually crosses the street and disappears down an alley, cursing the fact he didn’t bring his car. The vehicle is shabby; rusted, banged up, and only two years younger than he, is but it works. He didn’t risk bringing anything that could be identified near Elite. Not for the girl to track and not for James either.
The trip back to his house doesn’t take long—although he winds around a bit, hoping to shake anyone off his trail. Between James’ crew and the woman he now knows as Astrid Petta, he’d rather be safe than sorry.
Two blocks from his house he takes a small dirt path off the road and follows it through a wooded area until he gets to his backyard. The house isn’t much—run-down like his car. Or at least on the outside; a wave of this hand would reveal a much nicer place. A cozy cottage on the shitty side of town.
But from out here…the place looks condemned.
It’s all a ruse. A well thought-out plan to immerse himself in the seedy culture—an attempt to make James comfortable with him. Or try to. To the drug lord, Peter is nothing but a desperate junkie looking for a job to feed his habit. He has no idea why Peter is really there, what he wants, and what he plans on doing.
Unfortunately, James is a freaking psycho. Erratic, with a hair-trigger anger problem. Paranoia controls his every move and getting close, finding out the best way to take him and the entire operation down? That’s a challenge. He touches the scar on his cheek from the hook.
Psycho.
He’d knew the risk when he joined the group. Pixie Dust changed the drug scene in Crescent City. Users had money. Education. It started as a party drug, a way for the uptight college students to relax or to give housewives a little boost during the day, executives a jump at night. People wanted a break from reality, but the people using it? They’re the kind that when they start to lose control—lose it all—people notice.
The dealers have a lot on the line. Money, reputation, power. Whatever their personal desire, it’s enough to kill over. Hence the three student deaths a few weeks ago and Tink getting busted.
James acts tough but Peter gets the feeling he’s also scared. Of what, he hadn’t figured out—until that woman dropped from the ceiling covered head to toe in black, and her hooded friend appeared. It confirmed that there are other people tracking the operation. That Tink hadn’t lied about how he got tagged. It’s not just the police. It’s another group; dangerous people with secret identities.
Like him—he’s just lacking the dramatic outfit that goes with it.
Jogging up the steps of the small bungalow, Peter enters the backdoor, keeping his eyes away from the bloodstained kitchen floor. Opening the refrigerator, he snags a bottle of beer and sits down at the computer at the desk in the living room. He turns it on.
He hates this house, this life, but he can’t leave. Not yet. He won’t walk away until he makes James pay for what he did. It was a long game. Peter didn’t just want James—he wanted to take down the whole operation. Top to bottom.
Peter is desperate to reach the player at the top.
Peter pulls the small camera out of his pocket and removes the memory card. He shoves it in the slot on the side of his laptop. Photos of the apartment, the gym, and the blonde woman with the kick ass curves that owns and operates them all come into view.
He tips back the bottle, taking a drink, and flips through the photos. He’d been looking for her since that night after the fire at the warehouse. He’d stumbled on her by accident at the park. He got a good look at her face that afternoon. Listened to her speak. He followed her out of the park and seeing her enter the back door of the Elite facility was a surprise, but one that actually makes sense.
Peter knew his desire to find out more about her isn’t because he thinks she’s an enemy. It’s the opposite. If anything, she may be useful.
Maybe.
Seriously though, this woman…Astrid Petta. Manager of the Elite Training Academy. Thick blonde hair, lithe, fit body. She’s curvy in the right places. That much was evident in the sleek outfit she wore that night. She’s a trainer at the gym, obviously capable of taking care of herself.
He stares at the photo of her in the gym that he took the day before. She’s pummeling a speed bag like she can channel all of her rage in this one activity.
So yeah, he’s curious. But also wary, and he flips through the remainder of the photos hoping to get a better feel for how much of a problem she’s going to be. Peter can’t let a woman—no matter how hot she is—playing superhero in a black leather outfit get in his way.
When he’s done he opens the file saved on his desk. The WIND-E corporation. He’s also been following them for months trying to figure out the link between them and the Pixie Dust. He hasn’t quite put his finger on it. Not yet.
But he will.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Astrid
The house is a dump. Like, literally. Piles of junk and garbage fill the yard. Shingles hang from the roof, one gutter slants against the house, and all the windows are cracked and broken. A heady scent of roses lingers among the rot and filth.
“I don’t think this is the right place,” Quinn says.
“It is.” Astrid tilts her head and listens. A lone heartbeat thrums from inside. “He’s in there.”
She recognized his face—and the maneuver he pulled on camera. It’s the guy with the green shirt from the warehouse. He’d made it out alive—which means James probably did, too. And she has to assume James figured out who she is. What Astrid really wants to know is how he shifted reality that night. And why he’s working with James.
Quietly, they enter the gate, trying not to knock over or trip on anything. Used tires, rusty metal, and plastic buckets make up an entire wall of debris. The front porch looks like a landmine. Quinn wanders ahead and places his hand on the side of the house. When she gets closer he says, “There’s electricity. It looks dark but there’s enough juice flowing to light the whole house.”
The moon had been hidden under cloud but it passes and the yard is now in full light. Astrid stares at the house, trying to figure out who this guy really is and why he was in her apartment.
After Quinn showed up, nothing surprises her. Atticus’ notes made it clear he thought there are more of them out there. Why not in her backyard? What other secrets was her mentor hiding?
“How are we going to do this?” he asks.
“Take him by surprise?” With the abilities the man seems to have, Astrid thinks doing it any other way is asking for disaster. “I’ll take the front.”
Quinn agrees and takes a second, a brief one, to tug her close and kiss her before heading around back.
“What was that?” she whispers. But he just shrugs and keeps walking.
Astrid touches her lips as she carefully climbs the rotting porch steps. Is that where they are in their relationship? Good luck kisses before a mission. She’s not sure how she feels about it, although her belly lit with butterflies the instant his lips touched hers.
See? Too many questions. Too many thoughts. This is why she didn’t want to get into it with him.
Unfortunately she needed a distraction, and Quinn is a damn good one.
Brushing her hair out of her eyes and adjusting her cuffs, Astrid prepares herself to use them. Not a bomb this time but something to restrain him—if that’s even possible.
A huge rotting hole obstructs her way to the door. She tests the boards and oddly enough it seems stable, despite the crumbling wood. She’s careful but something nags at the back of her mind when she approaches the door. The handle doesn’t twist. Locked. She leans her head to the side, listening and hearing the faint hum of electricity—fingers tapping on a keyboard. That single heartbeat keeps pounding, never wavering.
At least he doesn’t know they’re here.
The scent of roses fills the night air. It’s constant, and Astrid knows it’s similar to the sulfur that lingers on Quinn’s hands. It’s his signature, the aroma tha
t comes with his gift. Whoever this guy is, he’s dangerous. And incredibly powerful.
She stands before the door, hand out, feeling the wood. It looks distressed, with peeling paint, but the surface is smooth. Mind games. All of it. She takes a deep breath before lifting her foot and slamming it into the jam.
Wham!
One well-placed kick with her heel destroys and splinters the wood. The door flings open, slamming against the wall, but what she sees in the middle of the door makes her freeze.
The trespasser stands right before her. A wide, knowing smile curving his pretty lips. The purple scar from James’ hook accents his high cheekbones and Astrid scrambles for the weapons tucked in her cuffs.
“Hello, Astrid,” he says, his voice deep and his eyes wild. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Astrid
The gaping hole in the floor widens, slipping beneath her like quicksand. Astrid jumps forward even though she knows it’s not real. It’s. Not. Real.
But her instincts take over, and the walls slide next, spinning floor to ceiling like they’re alive.
“Who are you?” she asks, using every ounce of self-control not to lose her balance. It’s all in her head. She repeats this but the obnoxious grin on the guy’s face makes her want to slap it off.
“Welcome to Neverland,” he says. “I’m Peter.”
His boyish good looks, along with the mischievous glint in his eyes, fit with his namesake. “What’s the deal with the Neverland game? I know Peter isn’t your real name. And the murder of three college students plus my mentor isn’t a game.”
He walks away—as if the entire room wasn’t a spinning top. The scent of roses is overwhelming in the house. Does it get stronger when he uses his power? Where the hell is Quinn?
“Come…sit. We can talk about everything—like the fact you think I’m a killer.” He gestures to a chair, his hand moving with a dramatic wave. Looking down, Astrid sees that it’s covered in white squiggly flecks. Bile rises in her throat. Maggots.
“Aren’t you?”
There’s a stony resolve in his brown eyes and she realizes that he may not be a killer—at least not yet.
“I’m not the one that firebombed a warehouse while dozens of people were inside.”
The pattern on the carpet begins to grow. Vines slither under her feet. “That was a means to an end. No one got hurt.”
“Why are you following me?” he asks, sitting in his own chair. He rests his hands on the arms and taps his fingers on the wood. “I have a job to do and you’re not making it very easy.”
“I’m following you because you broke into my house.”
He glares at the splintered wood behind her. “Looks like we’re even.”
Another flick of his fingers. She looks back down at the chair. The maggots are gone. Nothing but blue fabric. Reluctantly, she sits. “Seriously, who are you and what do you want?”
“I told you, my name is Peter and I want you to leave me alone so I can accomplish my job.”
“You’re sticking with this Neverland narrative?” Astrid acts.
“Why not? You’re dressed like Catwoman. We all have our own kink, right?”
Astrid glares. She does not look like Catwoman. She doesn’t even have ears or a tail. The grin on his face implies he knows this and relishes getting under her skin. Obnoxious prick. “Okay, if you’re Peter, where’s Wendy?”
The mocking smile leaves his face like she’d slapped him across the cheek.
Ah.
His eyes turn sad, but he doesn’t stop his tricks. She can’t tell what the purpose is. To confuse her? Intimidate? Astrid rubs the side of her temple. In any case, the spinning is affecting her head.
“I see you got a new outfit,” he says, eyeing her suit and mask. “Smart. The mask helps.”
The manipulations are making her nauseous. With her heightened senses everything is worse. Much worse. She wonders if he knows that.
“If you didn’t kill Atticus, then who did?” she manages to ask. Where the hell is Quinn?
“Don’t know—don’t care. But it wasn’t anyone in the Neverland Operation, I can tell you that.”
She grips the chair to steady herself. “How do you know?”
“Because we were all running for our lives from that fire you started,” he replies. “And because James has no idea who you are, what you’ve done, and who’s behind it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He shrugs as if that isn’t his concern at all but he does lean forward and says, “Look, I found you, but I’m also smart. James is an opportunist, but certainly not the brains behind that organization. He just doesn’t want to get caught and suffer the consequences. But I’m not interested in taking you down—or killing the good guys. I just need you off my turf, okay?”
Astrid’s stomach rolls, the nausea of the spinning house finally getting to her. She feels the layer of sweat and sheen coating her face and neck, and knows she’s got to make him stop. She closes her eyes, willing the sickness away and counts to the beat of ten.
“Hello?” he asks, his voice amused at her pain. Bastard. She pushes his mocking out of her mind and searches for something to focus on. The hum of the laptop. The beating of his heart. The tap of his fingers against the edge of his chair. Peter says something again, something muffled and beyond her reach. She pulls up that cool resolve, the one that has slowly been building since Atticus died. The one that has allowed her to change—alter—since wearing this suit.
Tap, tap, tap…
Her eyes pop open and her hands move just as fast, breaking though any of Peter’s manipulation. She slams her cuffs together and two cables sling from inside. The zoom toward their target, hitting Peter’s across the wrists, tying them to the chair. All movement in the room halts and she hears a slam from the back door. With the reality back, Quinn finally makes his entrance. He runs into the room and stops when he sees Astrid standing above Peter, slowly removing her gloves.
“Cool trick,” he says, approvingly. His eyes flick between her breasts and her hands.
Jesus.
“You may not be interested in taking me down, but I can’t say the same for you. You’re dangerous. You’re smug, and there’s only one way for me to find out if you’re telling the truth about Atticus.”
He leans his head back and Astrid gets the distinct feeling from the scent rolling off his body and the way he looks at her, Peter doesn’t mind being tied up one bit. A small smile plays on his lips. “You planning on torturing it out of me?”
She jerks her thumb at Quinn. “That one is here for the torture. I’m here for the information.”
She places her hands on both of Peter’s warm cheeks and braces herself for the truth.
Chapter Thirty
Quinn
Pacing the yard like a wild animal, he circles from front to back trying to find the door.
The door.
It vanished. Disappeared. One minute he left Astrid in the front, walking up the steps, and then the next he was going around back to the door he’d already seen--and it was gone. He races to the front to find the door has disappeared there, too.
Slowly shaking his head, he returns to the back and there’s nothing but a blank wall. Nothing but the slats from the siding, aged and peeling.
What the ever-loving fuck?
Completely confused and a little disoriented, Quinn approaches the house and lays his hands flat against the outside. The hum of electricity is still there but there’s something else wrong. It’s not paneling that he feels. Or even the dusty, dirty siding. The paint is smooth, clean. There’s a ridge of molding for a windowsill. He feels it but doesn’t see anything. Quinn blinks and shuts his eyes, then opens them again.
What he feels isn’t what he sees, and this triggers something in his mind. The way the guy waved his hands and disappeared—the scene Astrid had described at the warehouse. Whoever this guy was that they’re hunting, he’s not
just a junkie, a dealer, or even a killer. He’s a goddamn misfit. Just like they are.
The confusion turns to panic and he walks around the house with his hands on the surface, hoping to find what he’s looking for. Tripping over shrubs and debris and garbage and finally the railing of the back porch, all obscured by some force, Quinn’s fingers catch on the edge of the door, first the screen and after wrenching that away, the flat wood he’s looking for. The door knob is locked. But he’s now got a location, and without hesitation he throws himself blindly against the façade, hoping he’s hitting the right place.
Three times he slams into the door—or what he thinks is a door—twice hitting the frame and popping his shoulder out of joint. He places both hands flat on the door and traces the outline, memorizing the space. He’s got to get Astrid out of there. God knows what kind of mind games the prick is playing on her.
Using the force of his body, Quinn moves to a running start. There are three steps he can’t see between him and the door but he’s counted them down, measured them. He thinks. He hopes.
Pushing off the dirt, he takes a leap over the steps, pounding onto the wooden boards of the porch. Just as he throws his body against the door the fake image vanishes as quickly as it came, turning the house back into the dumpy shack.
His shoulder cracks against the wood, finally nailing the right spot and the jam splinters, freeing the lock and door latch with it.
Quinn flies into the house full speed, barely able to hold himself upright but he stops hard when Astrid falls into view. She’s standing over the restrained man, pulling off her gloves.
There’s no mistaking the smile on the man’s face or the appreciative way he looks at Astrid’s body. What all had he missed, being trapped outside?
There’s no time to ask because Astrid touches the man’s cheek with her bare hands, a feat, something that declares his danger and menace. Quinn waits, breath held to see her response. What she hears and sees in the man’s head.