I’m not buying it. “How do you know?” I roar.
“The necklace, Farrington—the clover—it’s a GPS tracker.”
I’m stunned silent. Did I hear him correctly? Is he serious? Confusion grips my mind. And a wave of relief so strong it threatens to bring me to my knees.
“I couldn’t just hand you over to the feds with no recourse. I had to know you were safe and I have serious trust issues.” Ryder looks away. “That was a huge violation of your privacy and I’m . . . not sorry because the truth is, I’d do it again.”
I’m not sorry either. Not at all.
At that moment, the phone begins to ring, back next to the grave where I dropped it. Without being asked, Ryder jumps off me fast, and I crawl-scramble to the phone.
I flip it open. “I’m here!”
“Were you followed?” Miguel asks.
“No,” I answer, staring directly at Ryder. “No one followed me.”
“For her sake, I hope you’re right. She’s a very beautiful child.”
I cringe. “I want to know she’s okay.”
“I here, Waychul. When we go home?”
“Lemy, I’m here! I’m going—”
He must have put the phone to her mouth for only a second before taking it back. “The girl is unharmed. For now.”
“What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything.” I begin to break down in tears. “Just please, don’t hurt her.”
“Keep track of the time. At exactly eight p.m. be at the Toulouse Streetcar stop on the Loyola line. Make sure no police recognize you—if you’re stopped or delayed for any reason, she dies. You get on and sit down at the front of the streetcar when the doors open, and I will let her off the back.”
“How can I know you’ll keep your word and let her off the streetcar?”
“You’ll have to trust me, little dove,” Miguel croons through the phone and hangs up.
Dove is the code name the FBI used for me.
“NO!” I scream into the dead phone.
“Farrington, it’s going to be okay.”
“No, it’s not! It’s never going to be okay! He has people everywhere.” I pace through the grass, the morning dew drenching my shoes. “My sister and I are going to die because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now no one can make us safe—not the cops or the FBI—not even you. Because he’ll never quit. Miguel will never stop until I’m dead.”
Ryder tunnels through his hiding place and yanks me back through with him. He grips my shoulders, forcing me to look in his eyes. “I will never stop until you’re safe.”
“Why? Why do you care?”
He swallows hard. “Because you are not dying on my watch—and neither is your sister. No fucking way. Do you trust me, Farrington?” He urges me for an answer. “Tell me you trust me.”
My fingers come up and graze the sweet little four leaf clover that hangs around my neck. After Ryder put it on me, the good luck charm quickly became a part of me. For the last few weeks without him, I’ve made a habit of smoothing my fingers over its surface when I’m thinking or need strength or when I think of the man who has become more a part of me than he could ever imagine.
I nod. “A tracker. I should have known.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Farrington.”
“Yes, despite my earlier actions.”
He lets out a lungful of air and looks relieved, as if he expected me to say no.
“I couldn’t figure out how you knew. It seemed like there was only one way you could’ve known.”
“I should’ve told you. About the . . . gift.”
“So, does this make you my guardian angel?”
“No, Farrington. I’m no angel.” He looks away.
“Despite what you believe”—I lay my hands on both sides of his firm, prominent jaw, which clenches at my touch—“I believe you are.”
Chapter Eleven
Ryder
After Farrington tells me Miguel’s instructions, I do a quick Google search about Midsummer Mardi Gras. It looks like it’s a barely toned-down version of the real holiday. There will be plenty of partying in the streets, and the Krewe of OAK even puts on a parade with floats. There’ll still be an abundance of costumes and revelry, but instead of the millions of spectators and participants that gather for the festivities during true Mardi Gras, this mid-year spectacle usually hosts tens of thousands of people that come out from the city. It will start today and continue into tomorrow morning.
“This is what we’re going to do.” I give her two hundred dollar bills. “Get to the Hotel Bourbon on Toulouse Street. It’s close to the streetcar stop. Register under the name of Sarah Lake—they’re not the kind of establishment that will ask for ID, especially since you’re going to drop them the cash and tell them to keep the change.”
“Then what?”
“Then you stay put. I’ll get supplies and meet you there in about an hour.” I scoop an extra burner phone from my pocket and program my number in. “If anything happens or if you need help, call. I’ll only be about hundred yards behind you the entire time. Once you’re safely locked behind the door in your hotel room, call me immediately. You’re not safe out in the open here, so go.”
She walks out ahead of me, and I wait until she’s a safe distance away before I take a side street that will reconnect with hers. I know this city like the back of my hand—a lot of skips try hiding here in New Orleans because it’s such an easy place to blend in.
Once she makes it to the hotel, I wait for a good ten minutes before my phone rings.
“Are you in?”
“I’m in,” she says, out of breath. “Room 17.”
“Try to lay down. Even if you can’t sleep, you can rest. I’ll announce myself through the door when I get there.”
“Okay,” she says and we disconnect.
I hit a find anything store and put together everything I think we’ll need, go back for the rental car I had parked near the cemetery and get to the hotel.
“It’s me, you can open the door,” I call out.
A moment later Farrington is unlocking the locks. When she opens the door I ask, “You alright?”
She nods and turns away, not wanting to meet my eyes. But hers are red and bloodshot, and she’s crying but trying to get ahold of herself.
I put the bags on the bed and come up behind her, then I lay my hands over her tense shoulders.
“I messed up, Ryder.”
“No you didn’t—”
“You don’t understand. He’s going to kill me no matter what, but I sealed my fate, making sure my death will be long and torturous.” She groans and attempts to stifle a sob.
“What are you saying? Why would he want to torture you?”
“Because . . . do you remember when you found me? There was a man with a knife.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“He came to cut me up.”
“You said they were going to sell—”
“Sell me, yes. So I lied. I told him I was friends with Drew and knew where he had hidden his missing drugs.”
“Oh, Farrington.”
“I thought it might buy me a little time.” She covers her face with her hands. “I told them I couldn’t give them directions, because the place he’d hidden them could only be accessed by a Tulane student. I thought they’d have to let me loose so I could show them where to go. I figured, at the very least, I was buying myself some time to come up with a better plan. That’s when the guy with the knife started to interrogate me, yelling at me to tell him where the drugs were that I helped Drew steal. He told me he was going to cut me up if I didn’t tell him.”
She pauses and silence permeates the room as she goes over and sits on the edge of the bed. “There are no drugs. I only knew who Drew was because he was in one of my classes. I’ve never even talked to him before.”
When she finally looks up at me, the horror in her eyes mixes with sheer determination and deep resignation. “They’re going to shred m
e—violently and mercilessly—because I don’t have what I said I did. But I have no other recourse, Ryder. I’m going to turn myself over to them to save my sister. You need to understand that, whatever strategies you’re devising, I won’t do anything, and I mean anything, to risk or jeopardize her.”
I nod before I come over and sit beside her. “I get it.”
“Now that you have that information, I’d completely understand if you pulled out. Because it comes down to the simple fact that I have a death sentence—and I can’t defy death forever.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” I stand resolute and empty the contents of the bags onto the small table. “I picked you up some new clothes since you were wearing that when you got away from your detail. You’ll put them on when we leave later. I also got us both masks.” I set the elegant masquerade masks onto the table. “We have to blend into the crowd and be unrecognizable to law enforcement.”
Farrington comes over and traces her delicate fingers over the edge of the purple mask. “It’s beautiful.” It is. It’s decorated with glitter flourishes and rhinestones of various colors. “I was supposed to come here for the party with a group of my friends, and now I’m never going to see them again.”
“Who are your friends?” I ask in an effort to distract her from her overwhelming fear.
“Tobi and Veronica. We’re roomies too. We went to the same high school together and have been best friends since grade school.” Her hand drops to her side. “That’s rare you know, to have such friendships. I’ve been lucky.”
“Tell me about your little sister.”
She fills her lungs with air, and holds the breath for a moment before she lets it slowly release. “Lemy is seven years old. She has a language disorder and doesn’t understand simple instructions like go get your shoes, or directions like over and under. Her real name is Reagan.” Farrington smiles. “We call her Lemy because when she was three the only way we could get her to stop crying was to promise her her favorite drink—lemonade. She loved it so much she referred to herself as Lemy. She was a late talker and had never even said her name before then. ‘Lemy, lemy!’ she’d say with a giggle when we put some in her sippy cup. She’s never used her given name to this day, and she can’t differentiate between our names—Rachel and Reagan. When we used to try to explain that Reagan is her name, she’d say no, point to me and say, ‘Waychul,’ then to herself and say, ‘Lemy.’”
Her joy talking about Lemy disappears. “She won’t know what to do when Miguel lets her off the streetcar—if he does. She won’t be able to talk to anyone—no one will understand her—everything she says is sort of garbled and can only be translated by me or my mom. She’ll be terrified, too, and won’t know what to do in the middle of thousands of people in the dark, all of them in costumes.”
Farrington’s breath starts to labor. “Jesus, she can’t just be released into the middle of the city! You can’t let that happen!” She grabs my arms. “Whatever happens, you have to make sure she’s the priority! Promise me, no matter what happens, you’ll keep my little sister safe.”
“I’ll keep you both safe.”
“But if comes down to a choice, and you have to choose between her or me—promise me you’ll save her.”
I hesitate for a second.
“PROMISE ME!”
“I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” It’s a warning. “When my dad died, my mom and I were devastated. She stayed in a depressed stupor for almost two years, and I sank myself into academics. Then she had a one-night stand and got pregnant with Lemy. She felt like the baby was a gift from my dad. Lemy was a little miracle—she saved us both—she brought joy and happiness back. She made us strong again. She gave us something to live for and hold on to.”
“Even your course of study—”
“All about her,” Farrington confirms. “What about you, Ryder? What’s your story?”
“There isn’t much to tell.” I change direction and go back to arranging the rest of the supplies.
“I highly doubt that, Ryder Axton.” Farrington calls me on it. “You’re a walking shrine. You seem to know everything, you have incredibly honed powers of deductive reasoning and situational awareness, you’re trained like a soldier, and . . . yeah, must not be much to tell.” That last bit comes out with a dose of contempt.
“I don’t . . . talk a lot, Farrington.”
“You talk plenty.”
“There are circumstances better left in the past.”
“But you chose to scar your body with ink so you can be reminded every moment of every day of exactly what happened. And maybe half of your bravado is actually trying to make up for something you weren’t able to succeed at.” Her voice is like a whip. “Never mind, it’s my fault. It’s none of my fucking business, and I don’t know why I thought I even had the right to ask you. How audacious of me—I forget that when you ask me about myself, it’s not to get to know me—which by the way we’re running out of time in that department—it’s really just to figure out your next move.”
“Farrington,” I say softly.
“You still can’t even say my name! I thought we had something deeper . . . going on . . . I was wrong.” She heads to the bathroom.
“Wait!” I bark angrily, but I’m only angry at myself. “You’re right. One hundred percent. I don’t talk about those things—I wear them.”
“Painful.” It’s not a question.
“I don’t know how to talk about it. I never have.”
“You never have?”
“Not to the psychs I had to sit in front of for hours on end, not to my brothers from the group home I lived in for over a year, not to any girl I’ve been attracted to, not a soul.”
Her demeanor quiets and becomes thoughtful. “I’m sorry, Ryder.”
“No. I didn’t want to be closed off with you. You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to open myself up to—and our relationship is obviously not the conventional type.” I set up my laptop that’s bedded inside its military grade case. “I’ve been closed for so long, I don’t know where to start.”
“How about at the beginning?”
I fix my eyes on the dark, blank screen of the PC.
“My parents and I were placed in witness protection when I was around seven years old. When I was nine-and-a-half, the people we were hiding from found us. My dad distracted them so me and my mom could run, but they found us quickly enough. My mom stuffed me into an air duct and gave herself up so they wouldn’t find me.” I blink and it actually hurts. “I listened to them kill her, and I couldn’t stop them.”
“Oh, Ryder.” Farrington puts a kind hand on my shoulder, and I fight my initial instinct to pull away.
“The fuckers kept coming for me, calling my name, trying to tell me it was okay. My mom told me not to come out, so I didn’t. I was in the duct for hours and hours, maybe even a day and a half, when I heard dogs barking and people talking. They weren’t the guys who chased us in; I could hear them communicating by radios. This one dog got real close to the vent, and when she barked it scared the shit out of me. Her handler, the guy who happened to be on the other side of the leash, was a retired Navy Seal Chief. He’d been in two wars and served countless hours after retiring in bounty recovery and rescue work. He promised to keep me safe that day if I came out. And he did.
“He and his wife Betty adopted me. They raised me with a lot of love. Chief also raised me to be a younger version of himself.” Now that the words are coming, it’s like I can’t stop them—don’t want to stop them. I feel compelled to tell her everything. I want someone to know about Chief and Betty and what they meant to me.
“The Navy Seal life was his credo, and he made sure it was ingrained in me. Chief homeschooled me and taught me everything he knew when I was younger—physical conditioning, along with mental discipline and survival tactics, awareness. While other kids were going to baseball practice or learning to play guitar, I was getting educated on track
ing criminals, spotting clues and going to target practice.” I chuckle at the irony. “He taught me about putting pieces of obscure puzzles together and solving cases.
“He was buddies with almost every cop, military personnel and FBI agent he ever met. He even organized a motorcycle club where all these experts and Special Forces men and women could come together, ride and talk shop. Everybody loved him.” That makes me smile.
“But most of all, I did. He called me son more than he ever used my name. I couldn’t have asked for more good-hearted people to take me in than him and Betty. She’d get so infuriated when he took me out on cases. Maybe that’s because society told her I was too young. By the time I was fourteen I was a crack shot, and I’d traveled to every state with Chief on assignments and rescue missions. We’d also hunt for cadavers after disasters.”
The next thought sobers me. “It all changed when Betty passed away from cancer. Losing her annihilated Chief. He changed everything—he wouldn’t let me go out with him on missions and kept me sheltered and locked up in the house as much as he could. When I fought with him about it, he pulled rank.” I’m overwhelmed by it all again in this moment—the way I felt so powerless, completely unable to reach Chief when he needed me most.
“For a few months after her death he’d get drunker than hell and talk about God and what kind of afterlife there might be. It consumed him and became the ultimate puzzle he couldn’t solve. It was like he had to break that veil and get back to her.
“Then one morning, out of the blue, he woke up and promised me no more drinking, promised things would go back to the way they were and we’d go back to working cases together. He took a couple days off and we rode bikes through the red rocks of Arizona. It was the last weekend we’d ever have together. That Monday, Chief went on a case without me—I later found out the guy was facing a lot of jail time. Chief never came home. The perp shot him.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay to talk about today. It actually feels . . . relieving to let it go . . . and let you share it.”
Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) Page 14