I was consumed by fury—always raging—raging that I couldn’t right the wrongs, raging that we lost Betty, raging I couldn’t bring Chief back. I had become a dark, violent storm because I had no say in my own life. No control over who died and who didn’t.
I was filled with unending madness because I was all alone in the world.
I was, and still am, the volatile one of the group. The one they really don’t want to mess with. Liam is tough as hell, but he still had Quinn to make his rough edges smoother; Josh had a great life until bullies shattered his world, causing him severe pain and anguish. The rest of the brothers each had something to keep them sane—a sense of humor or just a better disposition than I had.
Don’t get me wrong, death is death and pain is pain, and I’m not thinking any of their pain was less than mine—not at all—we were all dealt a raw hand by the Maker of the Game.
I simply felt like the lone wolf, always on the edge of the pack, left alone to wander the earth for some unknown punishment.
I could never willingly pull a woman I had feelings for into that disastrous emotional mess. No way.
My feelings for Farrington need to be locked in a vault—and the key thrown into the depths of an abyss—so they can’t harm her.
But I can’t do that quite yet, because I’ve never felt this deeply for someone before. And even though it hurts like blistering hell, I want to hold on to it, so I can always remember what it was like. What she was like.
It’s been forty-two hours since I walked away and left her standing there looking at my back. I behaved like such an asshole—I couldn’t even say goodbye.
“Fuck this! Time for a relapse.”
With all my darts in the board, I stalk over to the Keurig and grab the first coffee pod my fingers land on.
“It doesn’t fucking matter, ’cause I’m not the guy who gets to ride off into the sunset with the girl.” I get a quick glimpse of the green and white foil top before I stick the pod into the machine, and not caring what the flavor is, I close the top and hit the button to start brewing. “She might think I’m a fucking hero, but I’m not.”
“You’re more of a classic anti-hero,” Chase puts in, stepping up to take the darts from the board.
“Yeah, you’re like fucking Batman,” Reese says with either sarcasm or awe.
I shoot him a death stare.
“I mean it as the highest fucking compliment, man. Batman is fucking awesome.”
“What smells like pizza?” Chase asks.
“Maybe Adrienne was nice for a change and thought of feeding the team,” Liam says. Adrienne is the girl who works the front of the shop.
Reese and Conner snicker.
“Just call her,” Talon finally says.
“Call her? She’s in FBI custody,” I say incredulously.
Chase shoots a dart. “Like you don’t know how to reach her.”
“I need to let her go.”
“If she’s interested, dude, wouldn’t she call you?” Reese says.
“You don’t know much about how high level witness protection works. She doesn’t have access to a phone, or mail, or any visitors. She’s cut off from her family and friends and her entire life stops until after Miguel is captured.”
Why the fuck are we still talking about Farrington? With no thought or joy, I lift the coffee to my mouth, blow across the top layer and pull in a mouthful.
I promptly spit it out to the floor. “WHAT THE FUCK!?”
Reese and Connor burst out laughing.
“Jesus, what the—?” I open the Keurig and snatch the little container out. “Papa John’s GARLIC!?”
Reese drops out of his chair. “I cannot tell you how long ago we put that in there for you!”
“Weeks ago, man, fucking weeks!” Connor can’t hide his extreme joy either.
Chase adds, “No wonder it smells like pizza.”
I take long strides to the fridge and pop open a beer to wash away the garlic taste.
“I forgot that was even in there,” Liam says. “Guess that means no pizza—I think I’m going to order a real one.”
“Man, I can’t believe he finally cracked and used it!” Reese is never going to let this go—it’s just that good. “We just kept reaching over it to the real coffee. We never thought you’d actually get to the point of drinking it, though. Seriously, how could you not notice the shit was yellow and smelled like garlic? You are in way over your head with this girl if she’s got you that distracted.”
“Congrats, you got me,” I tell him. “I’m heading home, it’s been a hell of a few days. And by the way, you can clean that up.” I point to the mess on the floor and the now disgusting Keurig. That flavor is going to be stuck in the machine for days.
I look over at Reese, who has now stopped laughing, which makes me smile as I walk out the door and down the hallway that leads to the artist alcoves.
The shop is owned by Liam and Talon, and I’ve helped run it since its inception, but I left it behind some months ago to focus solely on my booming security business. But one thing has always been a plus—this feels like home, and when I need to express myself in some non-violent way, I take a client or two and create some art. Liam got me into that back at North House. It saved me for a while, but that kind of expression and my own denial of my issues could only appease me for so long.
I position myself on top of Delilah—my 2015 black Kawasaki Ninja—and head to my apartment in the city, thinking of nothing but Farrington.
For the next couple of weeks I purposefully avoid my brothers and throw myself headlong into my job.
I restored dignity to the St. Paul police department by bringing Farrington back into protective custody, so D’Angelo starts throwing lots of bones my way. It’s good for my savings, and I begin contemplating the idea of a much needed vacation in some tropical locale. I like the idea of skimpily clad beach divas, tall, strong drinks and no noise except for the sound of the waves hitting the shore.
Eduardo Miguel is no nearer to trial than he was when he escaped from that transport. The FBI can’t get a lead on him, even with all of the manpower they’re throwing at the problem.
In my spare time—which I should call all of my off hours—I hunt him via search engines, webcams, paper trails; every tool in my arsenal, I employ. He’s disappeared so effectively. He probably has all sorts of money hidden in offshore accounts.
But one thing my intuition is telling me is to wait and be patient. A man like Miguel doesn’t want to stay hidden, he wants notoriety and to take pride in his work.
Then again, my intuition isn’t exactly reliable at the moment. It’s telling me—no, screaming at me—to call Farrington.
Just pick up the phone and say hello.
Yeah, right. The fuck?
I’m actually hoping I’m totally mistaken and Miguel is just a low rank douchebag who happened to turn himself into a prosperous businessman. Maybe Mason Enterprises was only a pretty storefront for Cruz’s drug runs. Maybe all the money was Cruz’s after all.
If Cruz has already murdered Miguel, that will make him real tough to find. It would mean Farrington would ultimately be safe, but it might also make it so she never sees her cherished family again.
I tell myself there is nothing I can do about it. It’s not my business anyway.
During working hours, I can keep Farrington at the edge of my thoughts—sometimes, if I’m led on a particularly decent chase, I almost don’t think about her at all. That is, until it’s time to sleep.
Then I’m fucked.
Helpless and at the mercy of my subconscious.
And the dreams always come: I find Farrington bloodied and dead, chained to the wall in Miguel’s basement. We’re back in the car chase with the fake ass dirty cops firing their bullets into the car until one hits her right in the neck. The blood sprays against the windshield and it’s mere seconds before I’ve lost her forever.
Those are the worst.
This dream is diffe
rent. We’re back in the grimy motel room, and she’s blowing cool air over the alligator bite. I slip down from the table and lift her onto it, along with the towel she answered the door in. It takes only a moment before I have her legs spread around me, and I’m sliding my wrought iron hard cock into her sweet, tight softness. She’s moaning and whimpering beneath me, and I open the towel at the top where it’s folded over and unwrap her like a present at Christmas. I quickly suck one of her gorgeous rose colored tips between desperately wanting lips.
That’s when I hear the voice say, “Don’t do it, Ryder, you’d be her death sentence.”
I wake in a cold, startled sweat with the sensation of lust, love and terror in equal quantities.
“That’s what you get for holding on to those feelings, asshole,” I berate myself on the way to the john.
I’m in another motel room. If it wasn’t for the You Are Here exit map on the back of the door I wouldn’t have remembered I was in Atlanta.
My cell rings from the nightstand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”
I shake, flush and wash my hands. And it stops ringing.
“Good. I didn’t want any first-thing-in-the-morning conversation anyway,” I growl then grab my toothbrush and paste and move further along in the morning ritual.
After that dream, I am truly considering lighting a cigarette to accompany a black cup of coffee. I could do that here in the middle of nowhere, and I’d have no one to answer to. No one would know.
I would know.
Cell rings again. “Leave a fucking message!” I call out between rinses with the last of my travel size Listerine.
It stops, so I lather my face with shave cream. I almost have the razor to my jaw when it starts again. I pick up the towel for my hands, and look to see who it is.
Briggs.
Fuck, the only time he makes back-to-back calls is if it’s urgent.
“Hey, man, what’s going on?” I answer.
“Rachel Farrington just went on the lam!”
“What?” I ask, incredulous. “No way.”
“She snuck away from her fed detail about an hour ago.”
I check my watch—it’s four a.m. now.
Briggs continues, “The FBI are up in arms but are trying to keep it under the radar,” he informs me. “My contact on the inside gave me a call. They’re thinking she may be Miguel’s ally.”
“Where is she, Briggs?”
“She’s on the move, but her coordinates are 29.9586° N, 90.0650° W, which is in Vieux Carre.”
“The French Quarter, New Orleans.”
“Ryder, do I tell the feds where she is?” he asks seriously.
“No, just keep tabs on her. If she’s in trouble they could make it worse. If she’s not . . .”
“What? We’re betraying her by giving her up?”
“Look, I’m on my way. Get ahold of the nearest chopper service and call me directly back.” I end the call and pull on my pants.
“What the hell are you doing, Farrington?”
Rachel
Two hours ago I snuck out of the window and away from the safety of my FBI detail while it was still dark.
Just as I was instructed to.
I ran with every bit of force and power in my body and didn’t rest until I got to the truck stop in the next town over. Praying fervently my guards wouldn’t find me.
I hid in the cover of bushes in the back of the Pilot parking lot, terrified someone would see me and call the cops.
I waited almost an hour before a woman driver in a big rig came through.
I’d memorized my script. I could do this.
After she pumped her gas, went in for some snacks and came back out, I made my move. I pretended to be a woman frightened of her abusive boyfriend and told her I was trying to get away to my girlfriend in New Orleans. She was more than glad to lend a hand.
Now I sit here waiting in St. Louis Cemetery with too much time alone in the quiet with my racing thoughts.
The sun isn’t even up yet, and I can see Venus, the Morning Star, in the sky. I wish she could help me, but she can’t or won’t.
It started yesterday; the housekeeper came into the little inconspicuous home in Vacherie, Louisiana to clean, like she does every morning. The FBI had chosen the town because it was small and they could keep a good watch on the people there. If anything different happened, they’d know it.
Or so they thought.
“Excuse me, señora,” the housekeeper said when she pushed into me, blocking my path through the doorway with the vacuum. At that moment, she dropped something into my pocket and said quietly, so no one but me could hear her, “¿Quieres ver a su hermana otra vez? Sister? Lemy? See again, sí?”
It felt like my stomach was instantly filled with heavy cement. She couldn’t have said what I thought. No. No.
She smiled and nodded before putting her index finger to her closed lips in a gesture for me to be quiet. “Shh.”
Her words lurched repeatedly through me. “You want to see your sister again?”
Fuck! The fear gripped me. What the fuck is in my pocket? Where is Lemy?
“Are you alright, Miss Farrington?” Agent Jones asked.
My eyes trailed to Consuela, who smiled like it was a perfect morning.
“Fine,” I said too fast and too loudly, and then I rushed to the bathroom. I locked the bathroom door behind me and fished the hunk of plastic from my pocket.
A phone!
I flipped it open, and a tiny orange sticker that read PUSH ME was on the call button—I was redialing a pre-programmed number.
I hit it and lifted the receiver to my ear.
“Miss Farrington?” Instantly my mind spun as I recognized the voice of the man who murdered Drew Jameson.
“Yes,” I hissed into the phone.
“Don’t speak again,” he commanded in a low voice. “We must be absolutely certain that no one hears you. I have someone here with me that I think you care a great deal for. I’ll let her speak to you, but remember, be the intelligent woman I know you are and don’t make a sound. We don’t want to alert the FBI agents doing such a good job protecting you—because that would kill our young friend. What do you call her? Lemy?”
The mention of my little sister’s intimate nickname made my heart lurch into my mouth.
“Waychul?” At the sound of her tender, frightened voice I crashed to my knees on the tile floor.
“Lem—” I slapped my free hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t talk.
“Waychul, I go home. You come get me?”
Tears gathered then spilled down my face.
“Ahh, so now you know what is at stake,” Eduardo Miguel told me sinisterly.
I hyperventilated behind my hand.
“Hide the phone and do whatever it takes to get away from your guards later tonight—make sure it is dark, and make sure you are careful not to be followed or caught, or the child dies.”
All I could imagine was Lemy chained in that monster’s basement.
“Get to St. Louis Cemetery in the French Quarter and find a tomb marked Jacquette Devereaux, plot 325. There is a standing cross at the head of the tomb. Underneath it will be another phone and further instructions.”
At that, he disconnected.
So now . . . I’m at the gravesite and I have the new phone in hand, but there are no instructions or stickers, and I’ve tried to redial but this phone has either never called out or the history has been deleted. I have never felt so defeated and without hope as I do now, sitting here at Eduardo Miguel’s mercy, praying he won’t hurt Lemy and that he will really let her go once he gets me.
The morning hours go by without word.
I’m losing my fucking mind! What if I fucked up? Made a mistake in my terror?
I flip the phone open again—like I have every half hour—to see if there’s a message I could have somehow missed.
The battery is still good.
I hold the phone to my forehead and will it to
ring. Beg for it to ring!
Nothing!
It’s unbearable! I can’t sit here any longer. I have to do something.
“Don’t make a sound or move, Farrington,” says a familiar voice. “Don’t change your expression.”
My mouth drops open and my lungs hitch in a gasping breath of surprise.
Ryder!
“Look up if you’re alone, down if you’re being guarded.”
I let my eyes travel up the nearest tree trunk into the branches above.
“If you can talk freely, stretch and yawn.”
I think about that. I’ve been sitting here for hours and have neither seen nor heard from anyone. But how in the hell did he find me here?
Horror fuses through the marrow of my bones. No one knew where I was except for Miguel . . .
No. It’s impossible. After everything, he couldn’t be working for—
Every rational thought I have is swallowed by the irrationality of the fact that Ryder knows I’m here, right here in this graveyard, next to this grave. I’m positive I wasn’t followed. There is literally only one way he could know to find me here.
I stand and move towards the spot his voice came from. I take one step then two. Next thing I know, I’m charging through the thorny bushes that are behind Devereaux’s tomb.
I crash into Ryder full-force, punching and biting. “I TRUSTED YOU! I TRUSTED YOU!”
“Farrington, stop!”
I know he lets me punch him longer than he has to, but he finally grabs my wrists and pins my legs, laying on top of me, quickly incapacitating me.
“You son of a bitch!” I seethe and spit at his face. “She’s just a baby!”
His countenance is angry. “Jesus Christ, Farrington, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! What the hell are you doing here? What’s going on?”
“What am I doing here?” Furious blotches of color and light flash across my eyes. “How do you know where I am!?”
His eyes fill with concern. “Good Jesus, he has your sister.”
Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) Page 13