Wanted: An Outlaw Anthology

by Lane Hart

  “Dammit.” I stomp toward her.

  She crawls on her hands and knees through a puddle. Filmy water sloshes her long hair and face. I reach for her ankle and she kicks at me, landing a good hit with her boot to my shin. Fuck, that hurts—but I latch on to her foot and drag her backward.

  Her scream ricochets around us, the alley a perfect acoustic hub to bounce her fear back at her. She slings threats at me, calling me names. Monster. Animal.

  Killer.

  I’m all of those things.

  And I use the wrath and revulsion to do what’s necessary.

  I seize the back of her neck and hold her against the mucky ground as I straddle my knees on either side of her tiny body. I lock my forearm around her neck.

  “Could’ve done this the quiet, easy way,” I seethe through gritted teeth.

  Her subdued, strangled cry ices my blood, but I tighten my hold, depriving her of oxygen. “Fuck you—” Her whispered insult dies on her lips, right along with her fight.

  As she loses consciousness, I slowly release her. I check to make sure she’s still breathing, then sit back on my heels and drive a shaky hand through my damp hair. I replace the hood that fell back during the struggle and get to my feet, hauling her limp form up with me.

  The sudden illumination of lights casts a yellow glow on the lot. Damn. Woke the neighbors. I make quick work of transporting Keller to the trunk before I put the woman in my backseat, deciding she might be traumatized enough. Better not lock her inside with a dead body.

  I slide behind the driver’s seat and coast away from the warehouse. I keep my headlights off until I’m a few blocks away.

  That was lucky.

  And sloppy.

  Major damage control is needed. I have a strict rule about returning to a scene of a crime—never do it—but staying to clean up isn’t an option. There’s not enough time to secure the alley. Which means I have to go back—to make sure nothing was left behind.

  Not even a witness.

  I push my hood off and glance at the backseat. Hell, too many rules broken tonight.

  The drive to Fall City passes too quickly, not giving me enough time to think. I park inside the two-car garage and lower the door, killing the engine. Dragging my hand down my face, weary, I feel every ache and pain more acutely now that the adrenaline has ebbed.

  With a sluggishness that doesn’t match my thirty-six years, I climb out of the vehicle and wrench the seat forward. She’s still passed out. There’s a chance she won’t remember what she saw, or what I look like. Panic, stress, and shock do things to the mind to distort memory.

  Yeah. Chance.

  Might as well call it what it is: Risk.

  I’ve taken that risk before, but I’ve come too far to jeopardize everything now—even for the life of one woman.

  The hypocrisy of that thought lashes my skull.

  Fine. Better to be a smart hypocrite than a stupid one.

  Resolve solidified, I pull her forward by her leg and lift her into my arms. I carry her to the only place I’m sure no one will hear her, where she can make as much noise as she wants.

  The cellar.

  The underground room was a late addition to the house. Not on any blueprints, the basement doesn’t belong in the surrounding Seattle area. It’s prohibited. That’s why it’s an ideal place. No one even suspects it exists. You can’t see it from the outside; there’s only one door that leads in, and no way out.

  I cart her down the winding staircase to the entrance and have to prop her against the iron rungs so I can dig out my keys. She moans in her sleep, a fitful sound that frays my nerves.

  This is wrong.

  This is fucked up, is what it is. I made a rash choice back there. And now, confronted with the consequence, regret weighs heavily in the pit of my stomach.

  I hastily unlock the door and move her inside. “This place wasn’t meant for you,” I say, though she probably can’t hear me. I need to hear myself say it—to believe that I haven’t gone too far.

  The main chamber of the cellar is a bare, ten-by-ten room, unassuming in its simplicity. It’s the central cellar area that would be discovered if anyone happened to find their way down here.

  She starts to stir in my arms before I lay her on the slab floor.

  Damn. I can’t just let her roam around. I made sure the cellar was impervious from the inside, but it’s never been tested. Not yet.

  This place is for ghouls and fiends. Not women who attack strangers at night.

  “Don’t do anything stupid before I come back,” I warn.

  Improvising is not my strength. I’ve planned for years, worked out all the details, and this woman is fucking up the design. Who the hell is she? Where did she come from?

  I lower myself down next to her and sweep the dark, tangled tresses aside to reveal her face. A surge of familiarity bites at my mind, like a shark circling blood in the water, trying to locate the source.

  I’ve seen her before.

  But I don’t know where, and trudging through the past is like navigating a minefield. One misstep and I detonate. I keep the past secure just like I keep this cellar—locked and hidden.

  I leave, locking the door behind me.

  After locating a cuff and chain, I unseal the cellar to find her still asleep. I hammer an iron spike from my collection into the cement floor. The makeshift restraint will have to do until I figure out what to do with her. The banging rouses her, and I strip her of a boot and shackle the cuff to her ankle before she fully comes to.

  She groans, palming her head, as I test the strength of the chain.

  Relief is only partially claimed as I leave her, bound and trapped, and start up the staircase. I’m almost far enough away, but like the marionette that I’ve become, the cruel strings try to pull me in another direction. The whispered voice beckons me closer, the draw to look inside, to check. To deliver pain.

  It’s become a sick compulsion.

  I press the heel of my hands to my temples. “Shut up.”

  My head pounds with the beat of my heart, in sync with the murmured voice begging for escape.

  My head meets the side of the iron railing. The pain splinters my mind, giving me a second of peace. My thoughts shoot out like probing tentacles, threads of webbing all searching. I follow the one thread that promises a ray of sanity.

  The woman.

  I grab a blanket from the closet and candle from the kitchen and head back down. By the time I return to the cellar, she’s awake. She’s backed against the wall, her jean-clad legs pulled to her chest. Her eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark yet, and her gaze flicks around searchingly.

  “Now you’re quiet.” I kick the blanket her way, and she flinches.

  She uses her boot to fling the flannel blanket off her legs. The chain connected to her ankle rattles against the concrete with her effort.

  Hmph. “Nothing to say now?” I stalk closer, keeping every part of her in view. “You get three questions.”

  “Turn on a light,” she demands.

  The cool tone of her voice surprises me. “That’s not a question.”

  “I want the light.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Prisoners don’t make demands.”

  She braces a hand against the wall and eases herself onto her feet. She winces and touches her forehead. She’s going to be in some pain. She fought like a banshee, and the chokehold makes for an nasty headache.

  “What are you going to do with me?” she asks.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I say honestly.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Are you sure you want that to be your second question?”

  “Stop being so freaking literal and…calm. I saw you. I saw you.”

  I cock my head. The fear in her face is momentarily masked by her loathing. She saw me kill a man with my bare hands. She witnessed the full-fledged monster. This is what she means.

  “You did see me, and that’s why you’
re here. Want to keep stressing that fact?”

  “You’re deranged.”

  I shrug. “Probably a little.”

  She puts forth a measure of bravado and steps forward. The chain snaps taught, locking her in place. She’s all of five feet. How can such a tiny thing wield so much fury? “Where am I?” she asks.

  I want to pace, to work the rest of the tension from my system, but I keep still. Being still seems to settle her. “In my cellar.”

  I can make out the narrowing of her eyes. “You can’t be more specific than that.”

  “That’s a question, but I’ll give it to you. You’re in the cellar of a house that’s located at One West Pacific Avenue.”

  Her dark eyebrows hike, surprise lighting her features, before reality sinks in. She’s smart. Maybe too smart. If I’m giving her the address, that means I have no intention of releasing her.

  I knew that truth the moment I took her.

  “There’s nothing you can do with that information,” I inform her. “Last question. Make it a good one.”

  Like making a wish to a genie in a bottle, she considers her last question carefully.

  She bites down on her lower lip. That action captures my attention, and I’m momentarily fixated on her mouth before she speaks and breaks the spell.

  “What’s your name?”

  I’m a little shocked, and curious, that she wants to know. My name—just like her location—won’t help her.

  “Easton.” I give her my surname.

  “You were born with only one name?” she challenges.

  “It’s the only name you need to know. I’m not Rumpelstiltskin. My name holds no power down here for you.” I barge toward her, throwing her off-guard. “My turn. Who are you?” I stop just two feet in front of her so I can stare down, to remind her who’s in control, and because I need to see her features up close. The nagging familiarity is wiggling in the back of my head, like an illusive song.

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Why were you following Jack Keller?”

  Her eyes widen a fraction at the mention of his name. “No.”

  All right. “I tried to play fair. Just remember that.” I reach for her, and she does as expected, throwing her hands up to block. She’s been trained in defense. I hesitated a moment too long at the warehouse, and that lapse in judgment cost me.

  I move in quickly and wrap an arm around her waist, taking her to the floor. I force her onto her stomach, making sure to pin her legs down with my knee to prevent her kick this time.

  “Bastard!”

  “That’s one name I can live with.” I reach into her back pocket and dig out the leather billfold I felt there earlier. Most women keep their IDs and shit in a purse. Cops, on the other hand, like to keep important identification on their person.

  I brace an elbow between her shoulder blades to keep her pinned while I riffle through her wallet. I tweak out her license. “Makenna Davies. Suite one-twelve in Lower Queen Anne. Nice place. And let’s see here.” I slide a laminated card out. “You’re a private investigator.”

  “Son of a bitch—”

  “You have one dirty mouth.” I smack her ass before I release her. “Must be a residual thing from your cop days.” Once I have all the pertinent information, I stand and back away, getting out of her reach.

  She staggers to her feet and then pushes her hair out of her face. She breathes hard, her chest rising and falling. I notice the way her torn shirt hangs open to reveal her trim abdomen.

  Too close. I step back to prevent her from getting a clear glimpse of my face.

  “How did you end up at that warehouse tonight?” I demand. The limited patience I managed with her is gone. She’s a cop—or was one once. Most PIs don’t carry a piece. I need to know why she had that piece trained on Keller.

  “Keller—whoever that man was—killed my client’s husband,” she finally says.

  I study her. “Jennifer Myer is your client.”

  “Yes.”

  I knew Keller was going after Myer. Keller had to come out of hiding to get to him, and that’s why I left Myer alive. As bait. A sacrifice I’ll soon remedy.

  But Myer’s wife is a startling revelation.

  I decide she’s telling the truth. Mostly. I toss her black billfold at her feet and turn to get the candle. I scoop it off the floor, the pain between my shoulder blades coming alive. Teeth gritted, I dig out a lighter and face her. The challenge clear in my wide stance.

  “You want light. I want answers.” I flick the lighter. The small flame dances between us, casting her shadow against the wall. “What do you know about Milton Myer?”

  Her squinted gaze tries to peer past the flame. I hold the lighter off to my right, keeping the glow away from my face.

  With a defeated breath, she crosses her arms, dragging her torn shirt up to bare more of her skin. “Tonight was my first night on the job. I was hired by Myer’s wife to catch him cheating.”

  Plausible. Myer was more than a cheat. He was a vile, sadistic devil.

  “But instead,” she continues, “I watched Myer get shot.”

  “And your brave little self followed the murderer to take him in yourself,” I reason.

  She nods weakly.

  “You witnessed not one but two murders. That’s shitty luck for an ex cop.”

  This gets a rise out of her, tapping her last energy reserve. “I told you what you wanted to know. I’m no threat to you. I’m not a cop.”

  “But you know my name and where I live.” I made sure she did, to keep my conscience from intervening. I can’t chance any loose ends.

  Her breathing intensifies. “You sick bastard. I didn’t know anything before you told me! Let me go. I won’t say a word. I’m an ex fucking cop. You’re right. I was tossed off the force. No one would believe me, anyway.”

  I light the wick. The candle crackles with a small flame, illuminating the darkness. I set the candle on the slab floor and reach into my pocket.

  Her eyes widen at the sight of my coin.

  “The truth is, Mak. I didn’t—”

  “Don’t call me that—”

  I flip the coin once, silencing her. “You put yourself here. You saw too much. At the warehouse, I gave you the option to leave, but your bad cop habits got the better of you. I had no choice but to take you then.” I flip the coin again. “But I’m a reasonable guy. I can give you another choice now.”

  Her throat dips as she swallows.

  “I have one thing I have to do,” I say, stepping forward. She matches me, moving farther back. “One very important thing that I can’t let you get in the way of. So here’s the choice, Mak. Heads, I keep you alive until I’m done. Release you afterward. Or tails, I kill you now. Save myself the trouble, as you’ve already proven to be problematic.”

  Her back hits the wall. Nowhere to go. “Or you can just let me go now.”

  I smile. She’s cute. In a kind of crazy way. “Are you ready?”

  I flip the coin a final time.

  She doesn’t wait for me to catch it before she’s yanking at the chain.

  I uncover the coin and shake my head. “Tails. Damn.”

  I start toward her, and she releases the chain, her hands go up in defense. I give her credit; she doesn’t scream. “Please… Don’t.”

  I’ve taken too many chances lately. I’m either getting old or tired. Probably both. I have to secure the scene before morning, and I can’t do that with a woman roaming around my cellar. One woman can’t stop what I started.

  The fight is instant. Like a wild animal, she lashes out, all teeth and claws.

  She manages to draw blood, nails digging into my neck like a feral cat, before I secure both her wrists. I drive them above her head and pin her against the wall.

  Eyes wide, breathing so intense I fear she might pass out, she doesn’t look away. She stares directly at my face. I’m not sure if its curious
appall, or that she’s a cop and trying to memorize my features…but she doesn’t blink.

  “This is the first time I’m not letting the coin decide.” My voice is a low threat.

  Her chest heaves, breath fanning my face.

  “Don’t make me regret it.” I release her arms.

  Her body trembles, the adrenaline taking hold too fast. She crumples to the floor, twisting her shirt over her knees. It’s torn even more now. Tears drip down her cheeks. She’s not crying. It’s not even fear—not yet. It will fully hit her later. How close she came to death.

  I step back. A sick feeling tears through my gut.

  I should dispose of her with Keller. I’m taking a risk. And for what? An ex cop?

  No—there’s more to her. There’s a loose thread nagging me to pull it—to unravel the story. She’s given me a lead.

  I head to the door and pause before I leave. “I’ll bring you a new shirt.”

  Chapter Four

  Nefarious Design

  Makenna Davies

  The silence is absolute. A constant ringing fills my head. It’s maddening, and suddenly I’m fearful I’ve lost my hearing.

  Walled in by concrete, the sounds of the world—even the slightest, most easily ignored noises—are absent. I scrape my hands along the slab to interrupt the stillness, to stop the ringing.

  I’m bruised and cold and honestly, I am scared…but I found him.

  Him. The man with stone-blue eyes.

  I close my eyes now, letting the memory resurface.

  The sound of rushing water. The smell of the stream. The flash of lightning. The storm is everywhere.

  I’m caught in the downpour. Muddy earth slides beneath my shoes. I lose my footing, and the landslide takes me. I wipe at my face and crawl up the rocky embankment, and that’s when I see him. A hulking figure standing over Hudson.

  There’s a scream—and I realize it’s coming from me.

  He turns his head toward the source. He looks at me. And when lightning webs the sky, lighting up the pitch-black night, the flicker illuminates his eyes. It’s all I can see—that ethereal blue, just like the streak cracking the sky.