by Hope Anika
“Miss? Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re next.”
Cheyenne knew the woman behind the counter was talking to her, but she didn’t turn and acknowledge her. She couldn’t. She was trapped in the pale gaze of the man who stood before her, her heart a violent drum-beat in her ears, an odd, unwanted slide of heat burning through her veins.
“Ma’am?”
His face was carved with such sublime perfection she wanted simultaneously to recreate it in oils and smash it into pulp, and when his mouth turned up, just a little, her palm itched furiously.
“You’re next,” he whispered.
It was far more than just an observation. Fury flashed in those arctic eyes, a jagged edge that sliced the façade of flirtation to ribbons. A warning.
A threat.
No matter his tone—hushed, intimate, just for her—no matter the slight smile that curved his well-made mouth. Cheyenne was no fool. She knew menace when she saw it.
All of her reacted. The new fell away, and the old resurfaced, vicious and hungry and far wiser. The crowd disappeared: the sounds, the scents, the press of humanity. Like white noise silenced by a sudden cessation of power, her surroundings winked out in an instant, leaving only the threat of him.
Cheyenne stepped close, so close they almost touched, and held those opaque eyes with a gaze that cut. The words she spoke were low, harsh. Angry. “Didn’t she teach you not to show your hand?”
And then she hit him, one sharp, swift jab to his throat. He stared at her, stunned, gasped futilely for air, and then went down like a felled oak.
People scattered; someone screamed. The girl behind the counter picked up the phone. Chaos spread like a wave breaching a levee, until everyone around them was bleating in panic, bodies bolting, pandemonium in free-fall.
Cheyenne turned and walked away.
A taxicab it was.
Cheyenne stared sightlessly out the window as the skyscrapers flew past, her heart a heavy, painful thud in her chest. Her knuckles ached, not from the hit she’d delivered, but from remembrance. An echo from the past awakened by the present. A brutal reminder.
She shouldn’t have hit him. She should’ve turned away, rented a vehicle like a normal, reasonable, ignorant human being, and hauled ass once the keys were in hand.
Shoulda woulda coulda.
Your tendency to overreact is dangerous, Cheyenne. For everyone.
And your tendency to treat me like a child, Phil, is dangerous. For you.
So maybe she’d overreacted. Forgotten where she was. Who she’d become. But the threat was very real. She wasn’t imagining things, reading something that wasn’t there, caught in the throes of conspiracy. That encounter had not been spontaneous; his manner had not been innocent.
Try a stinking throw down.
Bad enough—but worse had been her corporeal response to him. A heretofore unknown, wholly physical reaction based solely on hormones. Something she’d heard about, read about, snickered over and often scoffed at, but never before experienced.
“Goddamn irony,” she muttered.
“What’s that?” the cabbie asked.
She only shook her head and focused on the first question that needed to be answered: who the hell was the man in black?
A gift from Georgia, to be sure.
The sound of that other shoe dropping was like a foghorn, but really, Cheyenne had only herself to blame. Death and taxes; she’d known it was coming. Georgia had been always been consistent. That was why Cheyenne had called Haven and verified The Kid’s existence before she’d ever climbed onto that flying boat. Why she’d had the Cheesehead email her a copy of Georgia’s will—not that she trusted anything so easily manufactured or even him, for that matter—but she’d recognized the neat, precise signature scrawled on the testator line immediately. She’d understood—with perfect clarity—that a stage was being set.
And now the players. Her, The Kid. The man in black….who was beautiful and dangerous and incredibly pissed off, apparently at her. Which made no sense, since she’d never laid eyes on him. But then, that was Georgia’s special brand of magic: creating something from nothing. She’d always been exceptional at generating shitstorms.
But what was the goal? Revenge?
Cheyenne snorted. “Like she has any right.”
“Huh?” the Cabbie wanted to know.
“Nothing.” Fury licked at the edge of her calm, hissing and popping, hungry for full ignition. But now was not the time. Contrary to Phil’s ignorant assumptions, Cheyenne knew when to pick her moments. And right now, she needed to think.
So…revenge. After all this time?
Cheyenne was a very successful artist; regardless of her refusal to attend showings and prostrate before the art world, she didn’t exist within a vacuum. Nor did she hide. Had Georgia wanted any kind of revenge, she could have attempted it long ago. Besides, how was tying Cheyenne to her child revenge? Was Georgia truly that far gone, that she would ante up her kid as part of the stratagem?
Hell, yes.
Because sociopaths didn’t love, not like normal human beings. That The Kid was Georgia’s blood wouldn’t make any difference. That was fantasy. The cold, harsh reality was that he was just another pawn to be utilized, an opportunity, and Georgia never passed up an opportunity.
“Sick,” Cheyenne whispered. Donning crazy shoes always made her skin crawl. But there was nothing to be done for it. Someone had to, because the game was afoot.
And if they wanted to survive, she had to understand it. That only came from crazy. From being able to think crazy with a rational point of view. Being born to a schizophrenic—and spending her childhood with a sociopath—had, apparently, not been for naught. “Yay me.”
This time the Cabbie knew better than to respond.
So…here it was, whatever that meant. Part of Cheyenne was relieved. At least now it was tangible, real, something she could actively deal with—when she figured out what the hell it was she was dealing with.
In the meanwhile, she would go see the Cheesehead and collect her paperwork. She wanted to know how Georgia had died—and every other detail she could squeeze out of him—and she wanted to know about The Kid, too. Everything the Cheesehead hadn’t shared, because she was certain there was more. There was always more.
Once armed with that, she would decide what was next. But first, they needed to make a stop.
“Hey,” she said to the Cabbie.
He ignored her.
“Yo,” she said again. He looked up and met her gaze in the mirror. He was short and bald and spoke with a thick Middle-eastern accent, and he had no problem with her scar. He hadn’t even blinked. Two in one day. The Apocalypse must be near. “You know a decent pawn shop on the way?”
He checked the address for the Cheesehead’s office. “Yes, yes. Jenko’s…it is only two blocks south.”
“Groovy. Let’s do that first, then. Thank you.”
Chapter Six
“No communications at all? You’re sure?”
“Nothing electronic, brother. Snail mail, maybe. But no email, no IMs, nothing in their phone records. No social networking, nothing professional I could find.” Red paused. “You read the file?”
Will rubbed his bruised throat, which burned and throbbed and hurt like a son of a bitch. “Yes.”
“Quite the tale, no?”
He said nothing. Part of him wanted to strangle Cheyenne Elias until she turned blue. But the other part… Christ.
He should have seen that punch coming.
Fucking asshole.
The thoughts that had flooded into him as he’d stood in front of her, tempted by something he didn’t even understand, betrayed every single one of the men he’d vowed to avenge. That anything—anyone—had the power to distract him from his mission incensed him. He was a soldier; he’d spent the last ten years of his life waging war. He knew how to fight, what it took to win.
How easy it was to lose.
He didn’t care why or how or what the hell
any of it meant. He knew only one thing: what he felt didn’t matter. He was broken beyond repair. None of it could be trusted.
Means to an end.
No matter what his dick thought.
“You going to talk to her?”
He was going to do more than talk—and therein lay the danger. But he had no choice; she was all they had. Georgia Humboldt was dead, and whoever had pointed her at the cache of weapons his men had died for—whoever had helped her obtain them—was still a mystery. Because in spite of the short list of suspects, even Red, with all the intel he’d uncovered, couldn’t find a connection between anyone on that list and Georgia Humboldt. And in order to act, they needed proof. Incontrovertible evidence. Nothing less would do, no matter how hungry they were for blood.
Which left only Cheyenne Elias and the kid she’d come to collect: they were the only way forward. And surely this anomalous thing he felt would fade. The hate had burned through everything: his pride, his integrity, everything he’d ever held valuable. Why not this, too?
“When I’m ready,” he muttered.
“You tailing her?”
Not at the moment. Since she’d laid him out in front of the Hertz rental counter and disappeared—leaving him to deal with TSA and the local cops—tailing her had proven impossible. Instead he sat parked outside 268 Michigan Avenue, the building that housed the office of Georgia’s attorney. Will knew Cheyenne would come here. She had to.
“I’m on it,” he said briefly. “I’ll touch base when I’ve made contact.”
“Roger that, brother.”
Red’s blitheness grated, but Will bit back the words that nipped at his throat. He knew Red was all in; Rye’s loss had lit a fire no one was going to put out. Red just dealt with it his own way—from a dark room surrounded by computer monitors, where the world was just a stage for the acts of his international players. He wasn’t a field man. Jesus, he’d end up dead if he tried. Betrayal and vengeance were just words to him…and the darkness came from without.
Not within.
“Don’t be mean,” Red told him. “We don’t know that she’s a player here.”
“She’s the kid’s goddamn guardian,” Will retorted. “There’s no doubt she’s part of it.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Could be she’s just back-up for the boy, nothing more.”
“No,” Will said instantly. Because she had to be part of it. “She’s here. She’s part of it.”
“If you say so. But…something happened there, brother. Something I can’t find any evidence of them ever rectifying.”
“Why would she come?” he demanded. “Why would she want him? The son of her enemy?”
“I don’t know…decency?”
Will snarled.
“You read the file. She was the good twin. And you and I both know Georgia Humboldt was more than capable of doing something heinous enough to earn that beat-down and destroy a decade of friendship. Don’t make any assumptions. Some people are led by doing what’s right instead of what’s easy.”
“Not her.”
“You don’t know that. Look, I know she’s our only lead. I’m just saying…tread lightly. Honey, brother, not vinegar.”
Christ. Like he needed that thought in his head.
“I have to go,” he growled.
“Be nice. Be the Will you were before.”
He snarled again.
“She’s a survivor,” Red said softly. “Don’t assume that came from any sacrifice other than her own.”
Will disconnected and tossed his phone into the empty seat next to him. Red didn’t understand. Cheyenne Elias was the enemy. To think of her as anything less was to underestimate her. To give her ammo that could take them all out—and enough people were already dead.
No one came halfway across the country to accept responsibility for the child of their enemy. No one. And that was assuming they’d even been enemies—which Will wasn’t willing to do. He didn’t give a shit what Red could or couldn’t find. No one did that. No one.
She was part of this. Regardless of Red’s fondness for fairy tales. Regardless of the words she’d spoken to him right before she’d put him down. Sharp and derisive and angry.
Didn’t she teach you not to show your hand?
Followed by that hit…goddamn. For someone so small, Cheyenne Elias hit like a brick. And she’d known exactly what she was doing. He was nearly a foot taller and outweighed her by a good eighty pounds, minimum, but she’d known exactly how to put him down. No hesitation, no doubt. That came from experience.
What the hell had she meant?
He planned on asking. Not so nicely. Because even if Red was right—which Will didn’t entirely discount—and she’d come only for the kid, why had she reacted so violently? She’d read the threat and responded instantly. Who the hell did that—if not someone who knew the stakes?
Someone who was set on fire and left to burn.
“Bullshit,” he muttered.
Because her past didn’t mean shit. Not here, not now. Nothing he’d read—in the lines or between them—could be counted on to tell him who she was, or what she wanted, or why she’d come. None of it made sense. Not her words. Not her actions.
Not his reaction to her.
What the fuck was his problem? He’d been dead inside. Nothing but rage and guilt and hate. And now this…whatever the hell it was. Betrayal. Distraction. Another fucking test.
Deep within, he could feel something stirring, as if part of him was reawakening, returning to the promise of the life he’d shed.
The one he no longer had a right to.
He didn’t appreciate it. Black and white—that was how his world had reshaped itself. Right and wrong. Life and death. But with her had come color. Heat. Temptation. When he’d assumed himself immune. Hollow, an empty tomb gilded in ice. Vengeance had become his sole definition; his only fantasies embodied screams and pleas and blood that ran thick and black.
Nothing more.
And yet that brief, violent confrontation had touched him, marked him, had wrenched his focus past the immediacy of retribution. For one infinitesimal moment of time, it had made him want. Of course, it was nothing in the face of what drove him. What he’d become. But that one moment could have such power, could tempt him back into the land of the living…
He’d gone off the fucking rails. It was time to climb back on.
Chapter Seven
“What made you change your mind?”
Attorney Smith Jones was a born and bred Cheesehead. From his thick, vowel-pummeling Wisconsin accent and his stylish Green Bay Packer tie clip, to the small Miller Lite mirror—adorned by a healthy white tail buck—that hung behind his desk. He was a tall, narrow man, with a pleasant, mildly curious smile and a firm handshake. Unfortunately, his gaze continued to slide away from her scar, and for Cheyenne, this was always a deal breaker. There was so much worse in the world than a little mutilated flesh. That he didn’t realize this truth—or had never experienced it—just made her write him off. Clueless.
Unfair, perhaps. But true.
“Been there, done that,” she replied briefly.
“Ah…I see.” His gaze fell to the small stack of paperwork in front of him. He was a tall, thin man, whose long, narrow jaw and sunken brown eyes made Cheyenne think of a sad bloodhound. His office was not much more than a hole in the wall covered in oak veneer and dotted by cheap furniture. Even the credentials that hung on the plastered wall behind him were framed in plastic. A dying ficus sat next to the only window. “Well. Let’s begin with the will, shall we?”
“Go for it,” Cheyenne told him. The expandable steel baton she’d purchased from Jenko’s Pawn Palace dug into her thigh; she’d slid it into the side pocket of her cargoes, where it fit nicely, but now it poked rudely into her, so she adjusted herself until the pressure eased. It was one of her preferred weapons, although it required close contact, and Jenko had been willing to deal. It helped make up for his reluctance to sell her the Bere
tta she’d taken a liking to without the whole “background check” thing. There were other sources. She would just have to hunt them down.
Funny, she thought, how fast she was morphing back into the streetwise kid she’d once been. She could only hope she was melding then with now and not simply in free-fall. Still, survival was survival. She wasn’t going to cry over what it took.
“As you know, Ms. Humboldt’s will provides that you are to be named as Rafferty’s guardian unless you are unwilling to fulfill that role, in which case his guardianship is awarded to the State. Since you are here, that won’t be necessary.” Another smile, eyes flitting over her left shoulder. “There is also a simple trust in place which holds Ms. Humboldt’s assets until the boy is twenty-one. You are named as trustee of that trust. I didn’t feel it was appropriate to share this information with you earlier, because if you didn’t see fit to accept guardianship, the trustee powers would have been negated and—”
“Assets,” Cheyenne interrupted. “What assets?”
“Er….well, there is an apartment in Paris, which is currently rented. A number of personal items—a vehicle, jewelry, artwork, that sort of thing—an account at Wellington First Financial and a condominium here in the city.”
“Shiny,” Cheyenne said. Clearly, Georgia had done well. “How’d she go?”
“I’m sorry?”
“How did she bite it?”
Mr. Jones blinked. “Ms. Humboldt was killed in the line of duty.”
Um…what?
“Come again?” Cheyenne asked.
“Georgia was an operative with the Central Intelligence Agency. She was killed in the line of duty in Grozny, the capital city of the Chechen Republic.”
For a long moment, Cheyenne only stared at him. Georgia had been…CIA? How the hell did a juvenile delinquent with a list of priors a mile long qualify for the freaking CIA?
By being a soulless strategist who excelled at manipulation. One with no fear of death and no moral compass. Gilded beauty that camouflaged a beast.
“True story,” Cheyenne said.