He added another word for good measure when I didn’t speak. “None.”
The thought of doing the hit nauseated me. “Unlike my father, I’m not trained to kill. But I’m more than willing to fulfill the second part.”
“What makes you think that’s good enough for me?”
“You said the final task was a delivery. To where and how soon must it be done?”
“A week to make the hit and then afterward he had to deliver my goods to Jackson, Maine. What? You interested in picking up a gun?” he purred.
“I-I can’t do the hit, but I’m willing to sweeten the deal by making the delivery in twenty-four hours.” I hated it when I stammered.
“That’s not good enough for me.”
I sucked in a deep breath, searching through my mind for solutions.
“Other than performing the hit, what other options are acceptable?” Thorn asked. This whole time, Thorn’s gaze had never left Roscoe. From the way he stared him down, I feared Thorn was contemplating doing something really heroic and stupid.
“Let me think.” Roscoe paced a bit. When a smile appeared on his face and then grew, the nausea in my stomach reached painful levels.
“Under the Code, I have the right to kill your father. But since you’re willing to take care of the delivery—in under twenty-four hours—I’ll make a nice profit from the sale of my goods to the Jackson pack. But, then again, I should be compensated for the lack of a hit man.”
His gaze flicked to the guards. A silent signal. Three of the larger ones advanced on my father.
My stomach lurched, and I tried to step forward. “No! You can’t do this!”
Everything happened too fast. Thorn grabbed me around my waist to hold me back. The first guard swung his boot and kicked it into my dad’s belly. The second leaned down to punch him in the face, while the other stomped on him repeatedly.
For the first time in my life, I fought Thorn. I tried to claw at his arms—twist my body to free myself. Anything to reach my father’s side and help him.
“Natalya, stop!” My father barked out his command between a grunt of pain.
I stopped but not without utter disbelief. So Dad meant for me to watch? To stand by and do nothing?
A sob escaped my mouth, and I tried to turn my head away.
“You shouldn’t turn away, Natalya.” It wasn’t Roscoe who whispered this, but Thorn. He gripped my shoulders, but his hands offered me no comfort. “He’s doing what a man must do for his family. Accept it.”
The urge to squeeze my eyes shut was so tempting. What kind of sane daughter could watch her father get beaten down like this?
As if that bastard couldn’t show any more of his indifference to us, Roscoe went to his computer and resumed playing his damn game. The computer’s noise did nothing to drown out the sounds of suffering. Time passed too slowly, as my dad’s blood flowed. When the guards finally removed his chains and then backed away, I ran to his side. He was barely breathing.
“Why?” I asked him softly in Russian. But Dad didn’t answer me. When I touched the only spot on his head that wasn’t bleeding, he didn’t move either. His bruises weren’t visible yet, but they’d come soon enough.
I wanted to comfort him. To tell him that everything would be okay—that I’d do what needed to be done. But it was time to leave. Thorn slowly hauled Dad’s unconscious bulk over his shoulder.
“Do you need help?” I asked.
“No.”
Somehow, I stood in front of Roscoe without spitting on him. “I’ll be back at dawn.”
Roscoe continued to play his game, his fingers twirling to send us on our way.
“Can’t wait to have you come back to play.”
Chapter 7
Since I didn’t trust anyone else in Atlantic City, I asked Thorn to take my dad home in the rental.
“You’re asking a lot of me,” he said.
We stood in the parking garage of the Golden Saddle, facing the vehicle where my father rested. He hadn’t stirred when Thorn offered him food and water.
After Thorn’s soft words, it seemed best to avoid looking at his face. “All you have to do is drive him home to a healer.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
I blinked, unsure of what to say.
“You know I’ll find you. Wherever you are.”
“You can’t help. You mustn’t.” I emphasized each word to make my warning clear.
“That may be true. But you know me—you may not see me, but I’ll always be around.”
His words dug into me and made my stomach clench. I’d heard them before. Back when the Long Island werewolves hunted me at every turn. Just like now, he’d been my protector. My white knight, even though he’d been promised to Erica. Right now I wanted something eloquent to say. Something witty to convey how much he still meant to me and how grateful I was that he gave a damn about me and my family.
What came out instead wasn’t as profound.
“You say that, but you don’t seem to be around when I really need it,” I joked.
I sensed his warm smile. “Most people define needing help as having their car battery jumped when it’s dead or fixing their stopped-up toilet. Your needs turn out to be much more elaborate.”
A quick peek beyond the parking garage showed a still-dark sky. I’d have some waiting to do. The night wasn’t over yet. It would be a night I’d spend alone.
“I think I’ll go get some sleep.”
He took a step toward me. “Are you sure about this?”
“I am.” I couldn’t say more without sounding weak.
Thorn sighed. “Can you promise me you’ll try to stay out of trouble? Just make the delivery?”
“I don’t go looking for it. But that shit seems to always be looking for me.”
He chuckled and took another step. I couldn’t help but steal a glance at him. He was close enough for me to make out a trace of blond stubble along his chin. I kept my gaze away from his eyes, and somehow it settled on his lips. How long had it been since I’d run my fingertips over them? He licked them and forced me out of my reverie.
Time to take a step back.
I started to take it, but he stopped me. His hand snaked out, and he pulled me into his arms. My face was buried in a warm spot right under his chin. I didn’t wrap my arms around him—I refused to do such a thing. But damn, he fit me just right. My body curved into his, at the perfect angle for our bodies to rub against each other. Even through my clothes I sensed the hints of his arousal. Smelled it. He still wanted me—and it convinced me all the more to increase the space between us.
Once we separated, I managed to find my voice. “You should go. The healer’s waiting for you two.”
He only nodded before getting in the SUV. A part of me wanted to turn away when he drove off, but I watched the vehicle leave the garage and disappear into the night.
All alone, I made the most of my time. I took a shower and switched into some clean clothes I’d bought at the gift shop. I tried to get a few hours of sleep, but my racing mind kept me wide awake. My hotel room wasn’t much of a comfort either. I checked the alignment of the coffee glasses next to the coffeemaker. I washed my hands five times. Then I arranged the towels. Whenever I tried to go back to bed, I’d rise again to seek out the comfort of a repeated activity.
When I finally settled enough to lay down again, I realized I still hadn’t taken any of my meds. Nor would I be able to for the next twenty-four hours. I still had some anxiety medication running through my system, but given my current highly anxious state, I’d surely be an obsessive freak by tomorrow. Not a good thing at all.
Sadly, I got only about forty-five minutes of sleep before I reported in to Roscoe. He wasn’t there when I arrived, but one of the guards had a set of keys for me and a note with my instructions.
“It looks like you’re getting a DT 466,” the guard said as he led me out of the building.
“A what?” He’d spouted so
me other language most likely. The language of vehicles and their associated models wasn’t something I was familiar with. In a past life, my time in New York, I’d been a fervent researcher of knowledge to verify facts for a publishing company, but trucks were not in my repertoire.
According to the note, I had to deliver the truck by dawn tomorrow at a park near Frye Mountain in Jackson, Maine. It shouldn’t be too hard to do this.
The guard gave me a quick ride in a Jeep to a large vacant lot not far from the marina. The whole area smelled of fish, construction, and sewage. A lovely combination on a Sunday morning. From what I could see, the lot had a bunch of cars, trucks, and such in various stages of disrepair. Dread hit me when I realized that none of these vehicles looked new—or clean.
“When you get to the Atlantic City Expressway, use the second lane at the toll. Roscoe’s got a wolf stationed there, so you shouldn’t have any problems getting through.”
“How kind of him to check on me.”
The guard shrugged. “One more person to keep you out of trouble.”
“Or in line,” I mumbled.
We continued to drive through the lot before another important question came to mind.
“Did Roscoe tell you what I was transporting?”
“Naw. It’s none of my business.” He paused for a moment to turn down one of the lanes in the lot. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with it either.”
I snorted. “I should probably know if I’m carrying enough narcotics to get the entire New England coastline high. You know, just in case I need to gun it if the police are on my tail.”
If Roscoe was having me carry drugs, what would I do? I’d have no trouble smelling them and would definitely know if they were in the truck. But could I transport drugs, even to help my family? Under most circumstances, I knew I’d do bodily harm to anyone who hurt my loved ones, but transporting drugs or harming kids was on the list labeled HELL NO.
The guard said nothing, so I remained silent. Fine. I’d find out soon enough.
We pulled to a stop next to what couldn’t exactly be called a truck. My body steeled up, and I mumbled, “Is that it?”
It was a damn dump truck. Not a new truck or even one that had been recently cleaned. It was one of those rectangular trucks people used to haul crap around. There was no way this was a regular delivery truck. It had gigantic stains, peeled-off paint, and endless rust spots. I could smell it from over fifteen feet away. It sure as hell didn’t smell like cocaine, pot, or some other rave-based happy pills.
As I got out of the Jeep, for a second I wished I were transporting drugs, so long as they were in a brand-new dump truck.
“This is the transport,” the guard said. “You got until tomorrow morning.” He used a set of keys to unlock the door, he opened it, and then he threw them to me.
When I didn’t move, he chuckled. “Sunup these days comes between six and seven a.m. so I suggest you be on time. The client’s a stickler about time.”
“Trucks this size require a D class license to drive them.” The words came out of me like a robot. I hadn’t expected to say that out loud, but I did. I didn’t know much, but at least I knew that little fact.
“Good luck with that. Don’t forget to fill it with diesel.” He jumped into the Jeep and sped off.
I continued to stand in the spot where I’d gotten out.
The first thought that came to my mind was, I’m so screwed. The second, I’m in deep shit, fit even better.
I took a step toward the truck and then immediately took one back. After ten deep breaths (didn’t work), I opened my shoulder bag and pulled out my antibacterial wipes.
One look at my sorry little package, and I groaned, “I need a Costco-sized box of these.”
Finally, I approached the truck. All the while, I repeated to myself, “For my family. For my family. I can do this. I’ve been through worse.”
The door was open so I stood on the step-up. The inside wasn’t any better than the outside. The truck had two blue seats, which appeared to have been mauled by small rabid animals. For some reason, the floor mats were missing and in their place was a layer of petrified food bits and mud thick as a shag carpet. The steering wheel even had a slimy sheen—oh, gross—as well as a broken-off turning handle. (Maybe if I jabbed something in there it would work?)
I cringed. It was absolutely, positively disgusting.
My chest constricted, so I took a short walk for some air. The cold breeze from the Atlantic brought me some comfort, but it wasn’t enough to keep me from thinking about what I had to do. It was time to focus on the truck. Take stock of it or something. I circled the vehicle and checked the tires. The treads were a bit worn, but they’d hold for the trip. I didn’t know what other things to look for, since my dad and Alex were the ones who took care of this kind of stuff. But there was nothing broken or hanging off to give me any concerns.
Something about the back of the truck caught my eye, though. A thick padlock sealed the door shut. At first I was scared about the contents behind it, but somehow I let it go. I told myself, If it’s dirty, I don’t need to see what’s inside. And I damn well didn’t want to handle what could be inside either. Let it stew in the funk, for all I cared. I didn’t smell narcotics. Matter of fact, I didn’t smell anything at all. What the hell was I carrying? The curious wolf in me urged me to reach out to touch the door, but I stopped myself. Eww. No thanks.
A quick glance at my wristwatch convinced me I’d wasted too much time. I had less than twenty-four hours to make a twelve-hour trip. In a vehicle I wasn’t legally qualified to drive, and without GPS.
The perfect Sunday drive.
When I got back into the truck cabin and shut the door, I faced my next problem.
I didn’t know how to drive a truck.
Well, at least I could start the damn thing. I turned the key in the ignition, and the truck roared to life. Good, one more thing to check off the list.
While the cabin warmed up, I took out my wipes and did what I could with the steering wheel and whatever else I could reach. No one had bothered to clean out the candy wrappers or the empty fast-food bags on the seats. I always carried a plastic bag in my purse for waste, so I just threw everything away.
Soon enough, the cabin was nice and toasty, so it was time for me to grab something, or push something, and make this thing move. It was just like a car, right? I’d driven a stick shift before. But, come to think of it, that was over seven years ago. Still, wasn’t driving like riding a bike? A few minutes and I’ll be good.
It took me a half hour to leave the lot.
The dump truck was cumbersome, and steering it was like driving … a humongous truck. I’d driven my father’s truck before, but that was another story. I had no idea how to make wide turns or avoid the mountain bike I ran over. (I left a note and some money—next to the pieces anyway.)
I had a few blocks to the Expressway and prayed the cops wouldn’t pull me over. I sure as hell would have pulled me over if I saw the driver of a huge dump truck was some chick gripping the wheel like she was attached to the damn thing. By the time I spotted the exit, I breathed a sigh of relief. Once I was on the highway, things would go a lot more smoothly.
Or so I thought. The window to view the sides didn’t help at all. How the heck did truck drivers see out those things? I craned my neck to see beyond the lane to make sure I didn’t run someone off the road. The first hints of traffic loomed on the highway, and I needed to make progress before I got caught in it.
I didn’t even have to cuss out any drivers to get on the highway. Everyone kindly got out of the way. I could’ve gotten into one of the left lanes, but why bother tempting fate?
The drive to the toll road went well. Of course, every time someone honked near me I wanted to bare my teeth at them. Not only was I a first-time dump truck driver, but I was an anxious one.
I made it to the toll booth in the second lane just like the guard told me to do. I whipped out a few dollar
bills, but when I reached the booth, the werewolf, a man who appeared to be in his late forties, just smacked his lips and gestured for me to roll through.
“Good luck,” was all he said.
“Uh-huh.” I had a feeling I’d need it.
The Atlantic City Expressway eventually got me to my turnoff to the Garden State Parkway. This route was familiar to me, since I’d taken it numerous times to get home from my various little shopping trips. From here, I’d ride past smaller towns and patches of forest. My speed was a steady fifty-five, since I had trouble shifting up to the next gear. Why hurry anyway? I had all day to make the trip, and a faster speed wouldn’t keep me from driving through the day into the night. According to the directions, I had about 550 miles. If my math was right, driving at the speed limit would get me to my destination by the end of the day. Easy peasy.
My confidence faltered when I noticed a car following close behind me. The black SUV looked a bit beat-up, with a scratched front fender. My first thought was, Thorn? But he’d been in the dark red rental SUV when he’d left to take my father home. His SUV at home was black, but the outside was in immaculate condition. Don’t get me started on the inside.
At first I expected the SUV to pass me, like everyone else, but it simply matched my speed.
Suspicious, I slowed down a bit. Why not go Cindy-Speed-Limit to see if they passed me with a frown?
But they just slowed down even more.
Shit.
I reached for my phone but stopped. Who could I call? My brother? He might be busy helping his wife give birth. If I called Thorn for help, I was opening a can of worms.
Of course, I could approach this a different way. I picked up the phone and dialed Thorn’s cell.
“Hello.” It was a woman’s soft voice.
Crap. “Is Thorn there, please?”
A slight pause. Out of all the voices in South Toms River, I knew Erica Holden’s right away. If all stuck-up bitches had a particular type of voice, then Erica would be their poster child.
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