Cards of Love: The Tower

by Linnea May

  Her desperation is evident.

  And it makes her even more beautiful.

  I look ahead, facing the same imaginary runway I just saw Brad and Tom run along as they made their way down. Tightening my grip on the straps, I start counting.

  Chapter 5

  Libby

  This must be a nightmare. I must have passed out again, or maybe I've been sleeping this entire time. Something like that.

  I can't possibly be awake right now.

  This is not happening.

  I almost throw up when my feet leave the ground, and there's nothing but death below. With my gaze locked down on the streets more than five hundred feet below, it's even harder not to faint again, let alone keeping my head up. Everything is moving so fast; the cold wind lashes out against my face, sending new waves of piercing pain through my body as it grazes my open wounds.

  My dress is drenched, and the blood drips down into the abyss as we fly over the city in an oddly calm and graceful manner. Even the sounds of the city streets are drowned out up here. The wind hisses loudly, overshadowing every sound and calming me like a well-meaning person's hush. If it wasn't for the agonizing pain in my shoulder, I would almost call it a loving caress while dandling me like a child.

  I thought I'd be crying or screaming for my life once we made the jump, but the opposite happened. As soon as we were airborne, the tears stopped, and instead of shrieking in fear, I'm now quietly staring down, gawking with my mouth wide open but not uttering a peep. I can hear his voice behind me, but I don't understand what he's saying, and I don't bother to ask. Whatever it is, I'm probably better off not hearing it right now.

  I can't lift my left arm, holding on to the straps of the harness with my right hand all the harder when he adjusts our direction, flying a little curve to the left. The move makes me lightheaded again, sending a wave of black dizziness to my head and blinding me for a few seconds.

  For a moment, all I want is to give in to the feeling. I want to pass out. I don't want to be here. I don't want to experience this. I want to be rid of the pain, the fear, the horrible images inside my head...

  The panicking crowd, people falling to the floor, dark figures moving between them, making it impossible to know who friend or foe was. There could have been one shooter or ten. The horror was the same.

  My aunt is dropping to the floor right next to me. Was that first bullet meant for her? The one that hit my shoulder instead? Or was it the other way around, and she was killed by a bullet meant for me?

  I don't know which would be worse.

  But if it was meant for me, why am I still alive? Why am I strapped to one of the killers' chests right now? Why did he take me with him instead of killing me?

  Is this a kidnapping? Did they come for me? Is that why people had to die tonight?

  But even in my spaced-out state, I doubt that because I heard the men arguing. Just as I came to, other men were on the roof, and they didn't seem to be happy about the idea of me tagging along.

  Tagging along.

  I manage a crooked smirk at that phrasing. It sounds so innocent, so friendly. Just me, getting shot, jumping off the roof with one of the guys who shot at me, tagging along—while bleeding to death.

  Because that's what's going to happen, right? I'm going to die. There's no way I'm getting out of this alive. God only knows why he hasn't shot me yet, but whatever his reason, it doesn't mean he's not planning to kill me as soon as we touch the ground. Or that he plans to leave me for dead after all. Maybe he just wanted me to die slowly or to torture me. Maybe he's some kind of pervert who took me as a very special toy for himself. I have no way of knowing.

  Maybe he's the Bridgewater murderer? There have been cases of abduction in the area lately, and all the victims were young women my age, ripped from their lives and locked away somewhere, and—in some cases—found for dead weeks later.

  Could that be it? Am I going to be the next victim of the Bridgewater murderer?

  Is this man, whose chest I'm strapped to, the cruel monster the police have been chasing for months? I couldn't even see his face because he never took off the black cloth mask. All I know is that he's part of the waitstaff, he's tall and strong, and his eyes are a dark hazel mystery.

  Could it be...?

  That particular handsome waiter. Is he one of them? Is he the one who took me? The one who tied me to his chest and is now flying me across the city, away from the hustle and the terror he caused?

  No. That can't be. It can't be him.

  I don't want to believe that it could be. Just as I don't want to believe that any of this is true. A few hours ago, my biggest concern was to spend a few boring hours at a glamorous event I had no place at, and now I'm worrying whether I will live to see the next day.

  I know my aunt won't. And I know there must be many others who won't. I have no idea how many people died tonight, how many were supposed to die, or why they had to die.

  The only thing I know is that death came early to some unsuspecting, innocent people tonight.

  And as of right now, I can't be sure that I won't be one of them in the very near future.

  Chapter 6

  Keane

  I don't know what my long-term plan is with this girl, but I know exactly where to take her after we touch the ground at the designated area outside the city center. The vehicle is already waiting for us, one guy jumping out from the passenger's seat to help me wrap and store the paraglider as quickly as possible while another sits at the wheel, waiting to get the hell out. I don't know the name of either of the guys, and I don't need to. All I know is that they work for the Covey, and they can be trusted to take me where I need to go right now.

  The motor is already running before we make our landing. Everything is prepared and ready for a swift getaway.

  Except for one little hiccup.

  "What the—"

  The guy who jumped out the car to help me with the glider stops mid-motion, pointing at the girl strapped to my chest. She’s lost consciousness again at some point when we were still in the air. It didn't matter then because I could steer the wing even with her hanging in the harness like a ragdoll. But her limp body made our landing a little harsher and dangerous than it was supposed to be, causing us to fall and roll. It was probably for the best that she wasn't awake for that because I'm sure it must have hurt like a motherfucker.

  "She needs medical attention!" I yell at the guy while opening the harness's hooks to free both the girl and me. "We need to take her to the medic safe house."

  "Who the fuck is she?" the guy asks, his eyes going back and forth between me and the girl as he runs over to fetch the wing. "No one told me that this was some kind of kidnapping mission!"

  I bite my lips, unsure how to respond. I know I should just tell him. It would be the sane and reasonable thing to do, the professional thing.

  But how would he react? How much does he even know about tonight's mission? Knowledge is usually dispersed among different players as much as possible to make sure that none of us, especially the basic henchman, can spill too much information in an unexpected interrogation. That's why I don't know these guys' names, and I also don't know where exactly the medic safe house is, but I know it exists.

  And I know we have to get there as quickly as possible.

  "Doesn't matter," I respond, already on my way to the vehicle, carrying the unconscious girl in my arms. "Just get us there."

  The driver casts me a curious look as I heft the girl onto the back seat, then return to help the second guy pack up the paraglider. I grab the risers, putting the connection points together in one hand while I use the other hand to grab all the lines, grouping them up as I pull them through my hand. The guy who's supposed to help me has obviously never handled a wing before and only gets in the way as I try to gather it up in a mushroom form, making it easier to carry. I suppress an annoyed remark, determined not to draw any negative attention to myself, not with the way I failed tonight's mission
.

  We jam the glider into the car and take off as soon as the doors are closed behind us.

  "Who is that?" The guy repeats his question. "You just took someone for ransom money?"

  "None of your business," I hiss at him. "Just get us to the medic safe house."

  Both men grunt in response, allowing little assumption on what might be going through their heads. Maybe they can sense the trouble I'm in; maybe they can't. Either way, they both decide it's best to mind their own business and leave me be for the rest of the ride, only throwing curious looks to the back as I try to apply pressure on the more severe wound at the girl's shoulder.

  They must've texted ahead because when the car finally stops in front of what appears to be an abandoned warehouse, we're greeted by two guys who bring a stretcher with them as they run up to the car.

  "Two gunshot wounds," I tell them as I heft the girl from the back seat onto the stretcher. "One a through-and-through at the shoulder; the other's just a graze at the hip."

  The guy standing closest to me nods as he leans over her to check her breathing. It's unsettling how young he looks; a baby face who looks like he should still be in medical school. And maybe he is. You never know who the Covey hires for their dirty work, but often enough, it's young guys like him who're willing to take the risk for some good cash to help them finance their expensive studies.

  The girl is still unconscious, the tips of her blond hair dipped in dark red and stuck to her collarbone. She's white as a ghost, looking fragile and empty as if someone has literally sucked the life out of her. She's still breathing, though.

  I watch as she is rolled toward the building, staying behind on purpose. The guys who picked us up are still in the car, waiting for my signal to drive away from the scene. Providing the vehicle and a drive to safety were the only things they were hired for, but they need confirmation that the job is done. A simple nod suffices for them to step on the pedal and make a run for it. It's no secret that they want to get away from the scene as quickly as possible. Safe house or not, right after a mission is the most dangerous time to be seen with people of the Covey. If things were any different, I'd make sure to get the hell out of here as soon as possible, too.

  But things didn't turn out as planned tonight.

  I approach the building, pacing up and down in front of the door as I make sure no one else is within earshot before reaching for my phone. I've dreaded this call ever since I made my way up to the roof, but it has to be done. The sooner, the better.

  I need to let the boss know.

  Big George picks up after the second ring, knowing right away that something went wrong. I wouldn't be calling him if it hadn't.

  "What happened?"

  "C got away," I say outright. Beating around the bush would only worsen things, I know that much.

  "Fuck," he hisses. "Hurt? Any chance he'll bleed out later?"

  "Unlikely," I tell him. "No hit."

  "For fuck's sake."

  He growls in anger, giving me a painfully long amount of time to worry about the implications this might have for me. I thought I was done with the Covey; tonight was supposed to be my last job for them. I'm so done, ready to get out.

  But I know they're not done with me. Especially now that the job I was given has not been carried out to their satisfaction.

  "The others?" Boss wants to know, not wasting a single word.

  "All out. But we lost Jered."

  He lets out a deep and angry sigh, leaving it unclear whether he's mostly annoyed at the news or sad about losing one of his men, a henchman who has worked for him a lot longer than I have.

  "I'll need to talk to my men," he says, addressing me as if I wasn't as much a part of the Covey as the men he's going to talk to. "C will be cautious from now on. We'll have to find and watch him."

  He clears his throat, leaving an ominous pause for emphasis, before he adds, "And get the job done right."

  The reproach is palpable in his voice, and it kicks me in the gut. I've never failed at a mission the way I did today. I've never let a target get away, and I've never had this many witnesses either.

  But I've also never had a pretty girl pushed in front of my gun and used as a human shield by the scum I was paid to take out.

  "Anything else I need to know?" Boss probes as if he could read my mind.

  "No," I respond. "That's it."

  The lie slipped out before I could stop myself. I don't know why. It just happened. I didn't share a very crucial piece of information with my boss, which would be another first. I've never withheld anything from him, let alone straight out lie to him.

  But for some reason, it still feels right.

  That girl in there is in danger, and as of right now, I'm the only one in charge of her fate.

  Chapter 7

  Libby

  Two thoughts are racing through my mind when I finally manage to open my eyes.

  I'm no longer in pain.

  And I'm not alone.

  The piercing agony in my shoulder is completely gone, replaced with mind-numbing relaxation that soothes every muscle in my entire body. I've never felt this relaxed before, not even back then, two years ago, when we backpacked through Europe and almost lost ourselves in the coffee shops of Amsterdam. My friends were far more experienced with drugs than I was, but I was determined to keep up and not come across as the innocent baby of the group. It may not have been the most responsible journey I ever took, but it was definitely the most fun.

  While my current high is a lot stronger and more relaxing than the ones I've had before, it certainly isn't fun.

  It's numbing me in a moment when I'd wish for more clarity of mind. Because I'm scared.

  Because he is sitting next to my bed, locking me down with a dark gaze.

  It's him. It's really him—the handsome waiter who caught my eye earlier this evening.

  Was it this evening? Or is it already the next day? I have no way of knowing. There's no window in this room, just four white walls that reflect the cold ceiling light all too brightly. A faint beeping sound to my right plays the beat of my heart. It's the only noise echoing through the room.

  He's sitting to my left, leaning back in his chair with his arms resting on the armrests. His uniform is soaked in blood, adding a gruesome effect to his handsome ruggedness. I moan at the sight, realizing that it's most likely not his own blood but mine, and the mere sight of it makes me sick.

  I tear my eyes away from his blood-drenched shirt, seeking his ominous hazel gaze instead.

  "Who are you?"

  My voice is hoarse, and my throat scratches with every syllable, but I manage to phrase my question nevertheless.

  For a moment, he just looks at me, showing no intention of answering. He narrows his eyes, surveying me as if he's seeing me for the very first time and trying to make sense of the person in front of him.

  His lips move as if he's trying to get a taste of the right words to respond to me. But instead of giving me a much-needed explanation, he retorts with a question himself. "How are you feeling?"

  "You shot me," I reply. "And you killed my aunt. How do you think I'm feeling?"

  "I didn't kill your aunt," he insists. "Someone else did."

  My heart aches at his words. It's not news to me. I saw her drop to the floor right in front of my eyes. I saw the life vanish from her body at that very moment. I saw all of it. Yet hearing his confirmation of my aunt's death still stabs at my core.

  "Why?" I utter, tears forcing their way down my cheeks.

  His eyes widen in concern, showing that as much of a badass as he might be, he's still uncomfortable with a woman's tears. He presses his lips together, once again denying me the answer I so desperately seek.

  "Why did you take me with you?" I continue my questioning, hoping he'll find it within himself to answer at least one of my many questions eventually. "Why didn't you just leave me there?"

  This time, he surprises me by giving a clear and definite respons
e right away.

  "Because you're an Abbott," he says, "I couldn't leave you there."

  I grimace in confusion. "What?"

  He shakes his head and lets out an exasperated sigh.

  "I don't fucking know," he admits, speaking louder than before. Exhaustion laces every word, showing that I'm not the only one who has had a rough night—to say the least.

  He looks at me, again fixating me with that tense glare from earlier.

  "Clyde Abbott is your uncle?" he asks.

  I nod weakly.

  "Shit," he exclaims, shaking his head. "So you really are an Abbott."

  "Yes, I fucking am an Abbott," I hiss at him. "But if you kidnapped me because you think I'm a lucrative bait, I'll have to disappoint you. No one's going to pay for my release."

  He huffs, casting me a dark smirk. "No shit."

  I press my lips together, trying to control the overwhelming urge to cry again.

  "My entire family is dead." I give voice to the dark thought that provokes a new set of tears.

  "Your uncle is alive," he objects.

  Now, I'm the one huffing at him. "Maybe. But you saw what he did."

  Our eyes meet, latching onto each other as neither one of us dares to speak the horrible truth. That my uncle pushed me in front of him and used me as a shield to save himself when this man was chasing him with a gun. This handsome but cruel man whose bullet hit me instead of the man he targeted, and who took care of me afterward, who took me away in the most spectacular way, and who made sure that my wounds were treated and my pain was dulled with some very effective and oddly pleasing medication.

  "I'm sorry," the man says, surprising me. "I'm sorry for what happened to you tonight."

  I frown at him. "That's a little ironic coming from the one who's responsible for it, don't you think?"

  "I never meant to harm you," he insists.

  "What did you mean to do?" I ask. "Kill my uncle? And my aunt?"

  "Just your uncle. He was my target," he responds matter-of-factly as if it was the most natural thing to say. He almost sounds apologetic. "We didn't even know you existed until tonight."