by Callie Hart
It takes me a while to find the food court. It’s three levels down in the basement, but Zeth told me to take the long way down, using as many escalators as possible, so I could scope out the lay of the land. Commit to memory where all the exits are. Plot out which way to go if I need to make a fast exit. It’s almost a waste of time, though. If Agent Lowell wants to take me into custody, it won’t be terribly difficult.
It’s five past one when I reach the food court—the place allocated as our meeting point. Rebel was at least smart about the location and time of our meeting. The lunch crowds—hordes of people queuing to grab a bite to eat on their breaks—create a wall of bodies, easy to slip through unnoticed. Lowell is already seated at a table in the middle of the food court, eyes downcast, fixed on the lit-up screen of her cell phone. I hurry through the bustling sea of people and quickly sit down on the other side of the table before I can change my mind and bolt.
Agent Lowell doesn’t look up from her cell phone. Her fingers move swiftly over the touchscreen, typing quickly. “You’re late,” she informs me.
“I know.”
“That tells me you’re unreliable, Dr. Romera. Why would I trust someone who’s unreliable?”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “You don’t trust me. You probably didn’t even know for sure if I was going to show up.”
A cold, unpleasant smile spreads across Lowell’s face. She puts down her cell phone and finally looks up at me. “And supposing you’re right? I don’t trust you, and you don’t trust me. How is this arrangement supposed to proceed?”
I shrug my shoulders, giving her a cold, unpleasant smile of my own. “We rely on the age-old principle of supply and demand, I suppose. You want information I possess. I want something in return. It’s very simple, really.”
Agent Lowell pouts, stroking a hand over her neatly secured hair. I wonder what this scene looks like to the families and friends and work colleagues seated at the tables around us, quickly inhaling their lunch. Do Agent Lowell and I just look like two girlfriends meeting for lunch? Or can people feel the animosity radiating off us, marring the air like a rotten stink?
“I want both of them,” Lowell tells me, her eyes vacant. In fact, she looks a little bored. There are dark circles underneath her eyes, though, and I know her blasé attitude is all pretense. “If I don’t get both of them, Rebel and your sister, then we don’t have a deal.”
The arrangement we made on the phone yesterday was for Rebel, but I prepared myself for the eventuality that she would change her mind, move the goalposts, and demand more than we agreed on. I’m ready for it.
“I only have the Widow Maker. If that’s not good enough, then you can forget the whole thing.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Would you really believe me if I told you where she was, anyway? Would you really believe I’d given up my own sister?”
“Word is you’re not so happy with little Alexis these days,” Lowell says. She picks at a stale-looking salad sandwich sitting on a plate in front of her, absent-mindedly pulling it apart. “Perhaps you’ve had enough of protecting her.”
I just shake my head. Agent Lowell sighs, pushing the plate bearing the stale sandwich away. “All right. So Rebel for a clean slate. Tell me where he is.”
“I need the paperwork first.”
Lowell shoots me a disgusted look. The woman is actually quite attractive, but her general disapproval with life has left a few deep lines on her face, making her appear permanently unhappy. “It takes time to get paperwork like that, Dr. Romera. It’s also the weekend. I can’t just show up at Judge Goldstein’s front door and start making demands. It’s his daughter’s bat mitzvah today. I won’t be able to get the sign-off until Monday.”
I’m prepared for this excuse, too. “We can rearrange to meet when you’re prepared then. I can’t guarantee Rebel will still be where he is right now, though. You know these biker types.” I flash her a completely insincere smile. “They tend to roam around a lot.”
Lowell’s mouth twists into a sour grimace. “Since we’re here finally having a conversation, how about you and I have a little reality check, huh? There are a few things I’m sure you have no clue about that might change your whole attitude toward these proceedings.” She leans down to her side and pulls a manila folder out of her Louis Vuitton purse. In the movies, manila folders are never good news. I doubt this one is going to be any different.
“I don’t care what you want to show me, Denise,” I snap, placing my hand flat against the envelope so she can’t open it. “I’m not interested. All I want is that paperwork, and then our business here is done.”
Lowell yanks the envelope out from underneath my hand and opens it anyway. She lays a photograph down on the table in front of me. “This is Ray Peterson,” she says, tapping a fingernail against the wide-eyed stare of the dead man gazing out of the image at me. The photo is in color, so it’s not hard to miss the pool of blood he’s lying in. I brace myself against the tabletop and peer forward so I can get a good look at the picture. Lowell seems momentarily disappointed. Perhaps she expected me to throw up or something. Tactics like that might work on someone who hasn’t spend the last two years working in the trauma department of an emergency room, but since I’ve witnessed more than my fair share of dismembered body parts and internal organs, that should frankly never see the light of day, all Agent Lowell gets out of me is a raised eyebrow. “Your point?”
“My point is that your boyfriend’s employer had a falling out with Ray Peterson last August, and then poor Ray here ends up with the back of his head blown out. You’re playing this whole thing very cool, Dr. Romera. Is this cool with you?” She pulls out another photo, this time an image clearly showing Ray’s gaping head wound. I blink at it, then fix Lowell with a dark look.
“I know Charlie Holsan’s an asshole. Are you inferring that Zeth killed this man?”
“I am.”
“And your proof?”
“Zeth was Holsan’s enforcer up until a few months ago. Who else would it have been?”
I snort, shoving the images back across the table at her. “Is that the kind of logic that convicts felons, Agent Lowell? Because if it is, I’m seriously worried about the state of the United States justice system.”
“It should be,” she snaps. “Maybe if it was, then people like Rebel and Zeth wouldn’t be free to incite mayhem. People wouldn’t be out there kidnapping young girls like Alexis right off the street. Here.” She pulls out a wad of photographs—at least twenty—and slaps them down in front of me. “These are all men killed on Charlie Holsan’s say-so. If your boy toy didn’t murder at least half of them then I shit rainbows, Sloane. And from meeting me, do I really strike you as the sort of congenial person who might be doing something like that?”
My pulse is racing—there are a lot of photographs in front of me right now, all displaying the mangled and very dead bodies of countless men—but I know what she’s doing. It’s pretty freaking obvious. If she can turn me, make me realize how dangerous the man that I’ve aligned myself with is, then her job becomes a whole lot easier. Shame for her that none of this is a surprise to me.
I know Zeth has hurt people before.
I know Zeth has killed people.
I know he’s done unspeakable things.
I know he thinks he is a monster.
But I also know him.
There is no excuse for taking another person’s life. I know that. I uphold that, and I firmly believe it. But Zeth didn’t kill Charlie’s enemies because he wanted to, or felt like it, and definitely not because he enjoyed it. He did it because he was hollow. He did it because he’s been surrounded by violence from the moment he was born, and he has never known anything else. He did it because Charlie Holsan was the man he looked up to as a child. Charlie Holsan was the role model giving Zeth his cues. He did it because Charlie Holsan ordered him to.
And despite that, despite the brutality of his past and his upbringing, there is still a kindness inside hi
m. He protected me. He fought for me. He found my sister, and he’s carried me through so much. He’s not hollow anymore. And I know with a certainty he will never take another life again. Not unless he does it to protect me.
“The man has a mean temper on him,” Lowell continues, jabbing at the pictures. “What if it’s not some mark next time, huh, Sloane? What if it’s your head he’s holding a gun to?”
Oh, boy. No fucking way. That’s it. I’ve had enough. I stand so quickly the cheap plastic chair I’ve been sitting on crashes over. What feels like a hundred people stop eating, drinking, talking, laughing, and stare. “You don’t know this man. You clearly don’t know this man at all.”
Lowell holds up her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sloane. Just sit down, okay? Just sit back down. We’re not done here.”
“I think you’ll find we are.”
I’m moving through the crowds, then, shoving and pushing past people, trying to get out. She wasn’t going to get the papers from that judge. She never was. She came here to convince me to betray Zeth and nothing more. My blood is boiling in my veins. I have no cell phone on me. Rebel insisted, just in case I was being observed and didn’t know the walls had ears, but right now I desperately wish I had one. I want to call Zeth. I want to find him and get the fuck out of here.
I don’t turn to see if Lowell’s following me, but I know she will be. I know there will be other agents mixed in amongst the crowds observing me, too. That doesn’t matter. I charge blindly, my only thought finding a way out of the packed masses. I run up an escalator, shoving past people, determined to get by, and—
I stop.
What the fuck?
As I reach the top of the escalator, I make to push past the man blocking my way, only to find I recognize the person. He’s my father.
“Hello, Sloane.”
I stumble off the moving walkway, bracing myself against his chest, the palms of my hands laid flat against the brown suede jacket I bought him as a gift last Christmas. He gives me a sad smile, and I know I’m about to have my heart broken.
“If you have a moment,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair that’s fallen loose from my ponytail back behind my ear. “I think we ought to have a chat.”
I don’t know what to do. I have never not known what to do. Michael’s hardly being helpful in this situation, either. Since we arrived at Fresco’s Coffee House, he’s done nothing but sit there, fully composed, drinking macchiato after macchiato and reading The Seattle Times.
I feel like I’m about to fucking explode.
“Are you going to be vibrating this badly the whole time we’re waiting? Should I go sit at another table?” Michael asks.
“Go and sit at another fucking table,” I growl. “I dare you.”
Michael folds the newspaper in half and places it on the table, fixing a blank look on me. “You want me to make some calls? Find out if anyone knows anything about Charlie?”
“That would be useful.” I’m being a massive dick, but I can’t help it. I can’t even sit still. Michael’s right—I’m literally vibrating in my seat, twitching every time the fucking bell on the door jangles and someone-who-is-not-Sloane walks in. Michael pulls out his phone and starts making calls. I stare at the ceiling, my head kicked back, trying to remember how to not fucking lose it.
I have no idea who this person is that I’ve become, but I’m honestly a little frightened of him. The old me has been wrestling with this new guy, and I have to say, this new fucker’s beating the cold, calm, collected version of me hands fucking down.
Some people might consider this progress, I suppose. Right now, I’m not sure what I think. I know I’m fucking worried, and that it feels fucking horrible.
“Yeah, yeah, buddy, I understand. No problem. I appreciate that. Thank you.” Michael hangs up his call, shrugging his shoulders. His suit’s not even wrinkled from sleeping three hours in the back of that monstrosity of car. I feel like shaking him. “Trey and West haven’t heard a thing about Charlie all week. They didn’t even hear about the showdown at the apartment, so they’re either lying or they’ve had their heads up their asses since Monday. They said they would let me know if they do hear anything, but I’m pretty sure they’re not going to.”
Fuck. I scowl at Michael’s cell phone lying on top of his discarded newspaper as though it’s solely responsible for the lack of any worthwhile leads. Thing is, people don’t like talking about Charlie. It’s bad fucking karma. You say the bastard’s name and he appears. Causes havoc wherever he fucking goes. The dark characters Michael’s calling on for information know better than to even think the name Charlie Holsan, let alone rat on him.
“We just need to be patient, Zee. Charlie’s hardly father-of-the-year material. Lacey will cut her losses and run at the first opportunity. She knows how to get hold of you, right?”
“Yeah. Right.” The last burner I had before Lace vanished into thin air is still sitting in the pocket of my jeans like a ticking fucking time bomb. No one has the number but Sloane, Lace, Michael and Rebel, but for some reason it just doesn’t feel safe. If it weren’t for Lacey, I would have ditched the thing days ago.
I take it out and toss it onto the paper next to Michael’s. My heart nearly explodes out of my damn chest a second later when a ringtone blares out like a goddamn klaxon. I think it’s mine. For one long second I’m filled with dread—Sloane or Lacey. Either way it could be bad news. Terrible news. But it’s not mine; it’s Michael’s.
He picks it up and checks the caller ID. “Rebel.” He looks up at me, frowning. He answers the call, talking in hushed tones. “Tell me,” he says.
I watch Michael’s composure fragment and disintegrate altogether over the next seven seconds. “What do you mean, she ran?”
The words are enough on their own to have me lunging across the table and snatching the phone out of Michael’s hands. “She ran?” I can feel my heart beat in my fucking temples.
“I had one of the boys watching her. She sat with the DEA bitch for five minutes, looked at some photos, and then bolted. Some old guy apparently stopped her, and then the fucking men in black swept in and grabbed her ass.”
“So they arrested her?” I fucking knew this was a bad idea. My hands begin to shake with rage. “If she’s in any trouble, I swear to god I’m going to skin you alive, motherfucker.”
Rebel grunts down the phone. It’s the sort of sound I would make if I were accommodating someone who should know better than to flare up at me. “There were no handcuffs. She hugged the old man. She definitely wasn’t arrested, asshole, so you can calm the fuck down.”
“Calm the fuck down? Okay, I’ll calm the fuck down when you tell me exactly where my girlfriend is.”
The word girlfriend trips off my tongue before I even have a chance to second-guess it. No second-guessing is required, though. Sloane is my girlfriend. She’s even more than that.
“I don’t know exactly where she is, obviously. I wouldn’t be calling you otherwise. Any idea who the old guy is?”
I fight the urge to smash my damn fist through the wall. “He have gray hair? Skinny? Beginnings of a tan?”
Rebel’s voice grows distant as he consults with the guy who must have been on point in the mall’s food court. And then, “Yeah, sure. An old guy.”
Yeah, sure doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence, but it’s better than nothing. The old man is Sloane’s dad. Has to be. Dr. and Mrs. Romera must have returned early from the trip Sloane sent them on. They were supposed to be well out of the way while this was going down, but now it would seem Sloane’s father is right bang in the middle of it all. Didn’t see that coming. Shit. “Okay, well…fuck. I suppose I’d better call her mom.”
I suppose I’d better call her mom. Ridiculous. Who the fuck am I? Michael aims a look at me that says he’s thinking the exact same thing. Rebel chuckles down the phone. “If you want, man. Just whatever you do, don’t fucking blow this for me.”
“I could give
a shit about you, motherfucker,” I snap. “You’re walking a fine line right now. You’re off on some mission to save some girl when you’re married to Alexis? You think Sloane isn’t one hundred percent pissed about that? Why don’t you just—”
I stop dead. Rebel says something on the other end of the line, but I’m not paying attention. My eyes are fixed solely on the newspaper that’s still folded in half and sitting on the table between Michael and me.
My mind can’t comprehend what it’s seeing—a black symbol, a block of solid ink in amongst the scrawl of thousands of words marking the broadsheet. The simple fleur-de-lis might not draw the attention of many people in this city, but a certain demographic react appropriately when they witness it in print. Or tagged on the side of a building. Or tattooed into someone’s skin, like it has been tattooed into mine.
Fucking Charlie.
I snatch the paper up and open it out, and sure enough, it’s him. Blatant motherfucking bastard.
THE DUCHESS
Beloved partner and mother.
Your loss is too much to bear.
Departed this world Friday morning peacefully in her sleep.
Funeral to be held at St. Finnegan’s Catholic Church
Sunday October 19 at 11 a.m.
Wake to follow at Hunt’s Point.
Your attendance is invited and most welcome.
I glance to the top of the page—the obit section. So that’s it then; the Duchess is dead. My stomach cramps at this new information. I knew it was coming, but still…the woman did care about me once, and I cared about her in my own way. I toss the paper down, shoving an accusing finger at the fleur-de-lis Charlie uses as his personal family crest. Michael frowns at the paper, sees what I’m pointing at, and his face clouds over.