by Ekeke, C. C.
Two hours into the reception, Quinn took a break from dancing. She watched the proceedings from her seat, filled with contentment.
At one table, she spied Jordana Buchanan, Uncle Anthony’s eldest child. Quinn’s cousin looked like she’d been poured into her baby-blue sleeveless dress with the mid-thigh skirt. Her waist-length braids flattered that gorgeous, heart-shaped face. But while the rest of Quinn’s family chatted or danced, Jordana texted on her cell.
Quinn scurried over, fuming. “Baby girl! Give that phone a break!”
Jordana met her gaze with a satisfied smirk. “Sorry. Giving someone a wedding recap.”
Curiosity replaced Quinn’s annoyance. She arched an eyebrow. “Your boy in San Miguel?”
Jordana blushed. “Maybe.” She giggled.
Quinn gave Jordana a love pat on the cheek. Her cousin had been in a 'Casual Situationship’ with someone named Bogota for months. Despite the boy’s odd name, Quinn fully endorsed this as long as she was being safe. The cousins approached the dancefloor arm in arm, spotting Annie and Johnny in deep conversation with Quinn’s parents.
“Why doesn’t Annie go by Gioconda,” Jordana wondered with a pinched face. “It’s a beautiful name.”
Quinnie chuckled in agreement. “She did when she lived in South Florida,” the reporter said. “But they moved to Ohio when Annie was nine. Annie was one of three Latino kids in her school. Classmates made fun of her name. So she went by ‘Annie’ to fit in.” Quinn squinted, recalling Annie’s disdain for those Ohio years. “When her family moved to San Diego, the name stuck.”
Jordana’s gaze grew distant. “Briseis dealt with the same BS over her name,” she murmured.
Quinn’s heart ached for Jordana. She rarely mentioned her former BFF whom she once claimed was the same person in another body.
Jordana shook off the melancholy and changed topics. “So, Annie’s asshole siblings.” She glowered in disgust. “How could they? On her wedding day?”
Quinn’s chest tightened in fury. Only two of Annie’s four siblings had attended her wedding. “They aren’t worth mentioning,” Quinn answered coldly.
She and Jordana reached Annie, who resembled a Salvadoran princess. Pearl drop earrings, makeup enhancing her exotic features, dark hair pulled back in an intricate bun. She scurried for Quinn in her Jimmy Choo heels. “Quinnie!”
Quinn’s heart soared. “Annie!” She gave her friend a fierce hug.
“I did it!” Annie whispered in excited disbelief.
“You did!” Quinn gave her a reassuring squeeze.
Annie cupped Quinn’s face in her hands as the wedding photographer and videographer circled their heartfelt moment. “I can’t thank you enough,” Annie gushed.
“For what?” Quinn wisecracked, keeping things lighthearted. “I just showed up in this pretty dress.” The reporter motioned at her own gown, which she loved.
“Stop it.” Annie gestured at Quinn’s parents, her brothers Matt and Jacob, and sister Aaliyah. People always remarked how much Quinn resembled her siblings, though she didn’t see it. “Having your family attend.” Annie teared up, her voice wavering. “I love you so much for that.”
Quinn flinched. She didn’t want Annie to think about her absent siblings. “Hey…take your breaths.” She wiped away Annie’s tears with doting fingers. “Today is for you and Johnny.”
Months before her wedding, Annie had made several life changes. One change included cutting off her greedy older siblings, Gabriella and Angel, who’d taken advantage of Annie’s kindness for years.
In response, both had rescinded their wedding RSVPS despite the rest of Annie’s family attending.
To quell Annie’s anguish, Quinn had rallied her immediate family and cousins Jordana, Roland, and Ricardo to attend. She would do anything for her person.
“We can’t choose our blood relations,” Charlotte Bauer added, her face lean and lined. Quinn’s mom, soft-spoken but firm, was always a pillar of strength. “We can choose our family.”
“We choose you, Annie,” said Quinn’s dad, Michael, bald with a slight paunch.
Quinn stroked Annie’s face, her own eyes watering from all the feelings. “Sisters from distant misters.”
“God!” Annie sniffled. “I keep forgetting where Quinnie gets the den mother thing from.” That earned laughter from Quinn’s family gathered around Annie and Johnny.
The groom, so young-looking without his beard, draped an arm around Quinn. He pecked her forehead. “Thank you,” Johnny’s murmur was husky with emotion.
His affection cracked Quinn’s heart open. She fought back tears. “Always.”
Too late. Tears spilled. “Annie and Johnny need hugs. Bring it in, fam.” Quinn gestured her family into a Bauer embrace. The newlyweds dissolved into sobbing puddles, with Quinn weeping beside them.
The reception finally petered out in the early morning. Quinn waited outside the harbor club for her Lyft ride, carrying her duffel bag with a change of clothes.
She was smiling and swaying, properly buzzed off drink and post-wedding bliss. Annie and Johnny had retired to their Jamestown hotel with the rest of the wedding party. Quinn’s parents had taken Jordana and her brothers home to Scituate, Massachusetts.
Of all the weddings she’d attended, never had Quinn felt so satisfied afterward. Will I ever find someone who completes me that way? She wanted to believe, yet those persistent doubts kept hope fleeting.
Her vibrating cellphone provided a welcome distraction. The caller ID alarmed Quinn.
Despite the wedding, she’d kept busy on SLOCO Daily’s Paxton-Brandt exposé into the megacorp’s corruption. A source calling this late was either good or bad. “Walt?” Quinn greeted. “Hi.”
“I’m done, Quinn,” the man on the other end blurted out. “Sorry!”
Walt Greenwood’s fear jarred Quinn out of her tipsy wedding bliss. “Walt? Slow down,” she said, calm but never patronizing. “Talk to me.”
“I’m being followed.” The man’s tone was shaky and spooked. “They’re onto me.”
Quinn sighed. “You don’t know that.” This wasn’t the first time he’d threatened to walk. Walt’s paranoia ran deep.
“I do!” he insisted. “Is this goddamn exposé ever coming out?”
“It will, Walt,” Quinn replied, cool and collected in the face of her source’s rage. “But your story isn’t the only abuse we’re exposing. With an entity this big, it has to be a kill shot. Or else what’s the point?”
“The point? How about my life?”
Quinn lurched woozily away from her phone, still toasted from tonight’s champagne. She opened her mouth to reply, but Walt kept ranting.
“You can’t imagine what these people are capable of!”
Quinn sensed the unsteady tightrope this partnership balanced on. The wrong words could scare Walt off for good. In this tense moment, she recalled Helena Madden’s advice on skittish sources. “Empathize so they know you’re their ally, even if it takes revealing private pieces of you.”
Quinn steeled herself and responded. “You’re right. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you,” she admitted. “But I've had someone attempt to murder me,” the reporter stated, referring to disgraced hero, Morningstar, trying to cover up Titan’s death. “But I never gave up fighting to tell the truth. Stay silent, and you’ll always be a complicit prisoner.”
From the labored breathing, Quinn knew Walt was still there. “Remember why you contacted us?”
Walt sighed heavily. “I couldn’t stomach what Paxton-Brandt was doing to innocent supers.”
Quinn nodded confidently. “Paxton-Brandt will be exposed. I’ll be with you every step.” Headlights flooded the dark road, signaling her ride’s arrival. She kept focus on Walt.
“Promise?” he asked, still uncertain.
“Promise,” Quinn said with a smile. Walt was a key informant in SLOCO Daily’s forthcoming exposé on Paxton-Brandt. His evidence detailed their superhuman experiments on is
lands like Haiti, Martinique, and Amarantha. Losing him would be a huge setback.
She heard a rueful sigh on the other end. “Sorry for being so weak.”
“It’s okay.” Quinn felt dizzying relief pulling Walt back from the brink—again. “These are scary times.” After some small talk on Walt’s next data drop, Quinn said goodbye and got into her patient ride.
She reached Narraganset Bay in twenty-two minutes. When Quinn exited her ride at the small harbor, her meetup sat waiting on a pylon under a lamp. Faint outlines of yachts floated farther out in the pitch-black sea. Her meetup stood and approached with leisurely strides.
A smile pulled at Quinn’s lips while she watched the tall drink of chocolate named Rob Isaacs. He looked so scrumptious in jeans and a t-shirt, hair closely cropped, goatee trimmed.
“How was the wedding?” Rob asked.
“Amazing.” Quinn had to crane her neck back to take in Rob’s towering frame. “And today’s harbor tours?” she asked, referring to Rob’s boat tour business.
“Amazing." The onceover Rob gave Quinn crackled with hunger. “Love the dress.”
Quinn blushed and looked down. “This old thing?” She felt giddy, knowing what he wanted. And eager to let him have it. “Took some time to put on.”
Rob chuckled. “How fast can we take it off?” He pulled Quinn into a kiss. She melted into him.
Once they came up for air, Rob led Quinn by the hand to his boat at the dock’s edge.
What proceeded was spine-tingling and euphoric, as Quinn expected. Friends since middle school, they'd always shared a mutual attraction. But neither had been single at the same time. They’d reconnected months after Quinn had graduated from Brown, newly single. Now, during each trip home, Rob took her on a carnal trip down memory lane.
Quinn woke in Rob’s bed, the sun rising in clear skies. Her cell said quarter till ten. After a shower, she threw on a Brown University hoodie and short-shorts from her duffel bag before heading above deck.
Deep-blue sea stretched on forever beyond Rob’s boat. Each small ripple was gilded in sparkling sun. Many boats near and far populated the harbor, from derelict barges to high-end yachts.
Rob lounged at a round table shirtless, scarfing down eggs, grapefruit, and sausage. He saw Quinn, and that sexy grin she loved appeared.
Rob pointed at a second plate. “I cooked breakfast.”
Quinn sat on his lap, sneaking in a few kisses. “Why thank you.” Coastal breezes wafting her face smelled of brine. Breakfast tasted delicious, like the company.
“I’m free until I pick up my daughter later this afternoon.” Rob walked his fingers on Quinn’s thigh.
While tempting, Quinn always had to set boundaries with Rob. “Another hour,” she negotiated. “Annie and Johnny have a wedding party lunch. Then my friend, Mikaela, arrives mid-afternoon. I’m giving her a Scituate, Boston, and Newport tour.”
Rob’s disappointment was obvious. He wanted more. But casual hookups were all that Quinn could offer. Rob forced on a smile. “Don’t forget Satuit Tavern—”
“For the world’s best clam chowdah,” Quinn finished, rolling her eyes. “On the itinerary.” A phone call interrupted their laughter.
Quinn picked up her cell, eyeing the caller ID. Shock ran through her as she hurriedly sent it to voicemail. There was only one reason why Therese Levesque wasn’t using an encrypted line.
And Quinn had zero interest in her excuses. Maybe not ever…
Unfortunately, Rob noticed. “Who’s Therese?”
“Nobody,” Quinn stated, sharper than intended.
Rob’s dark eyes watched her skeptically. “Yet you’re screening her calls.”
“Cuz she’s nobody.” The warning in Quinn’s tone underlined that this discussion was over.
She moved to place her phone on the table as an alert caught her eyes.
San Miguel’s Newest Hero? Concern knitted Quinn’s stomach. She clicked the article, read it, and nearly spat out her orange juice.
The image dominated SLOCO Daily’s homepage, a man-shaped silhouette pushing a massive boulder over San Miguel’s PCH. The hood costume told Quinn this hero's identity.
“More craziness in the City of Wonder?” Rob remarked, reading over her shoulder.
“Never a dull minute,” Quinn snarked distractedly, skimming through the article.
“Ivy and I gotta visit soon,” Rob gushed. “Heroes grow like weeds out there. Is this one a friend, too?”
“No idea,” Quinn lied again. Yet, her feelings were bitingly frank. Hugo, you big idiot.
Chapter 3
They’d been at it six hours straight. Sleep deprivation. Waterboarding. Peeling off fingernails. That didn’t include yesterday’s ungodly beating. And flaying off skin the day before.
But the prisoner was a tough bastard, tied to a chair in this dingy room, drenched in blood and sweat, reeking of filth. Tangled grey beard and paunch jutting out defiantly, the prisoner wouldn’t talk.
That infuriated his interrogators more. With a group as brutal as the Vertebreakers, infuriation meant more creative doses of torture.
One man in the back of the room watched but didn’t partake. His teammates, Karl Johansson and Rikki Leung, pummeled the prisoner, Marcos de Silva, with fists and feet. Especially Rikki, her mean streak a mile long. Yet Marcos said nothing.
The man reclined against the wall, a half-smile on his mouth. He admired Marcos’ tenacity, even though it stymied the mission. Allegedly, Marcos had been a guerilla fighter in his youth for the Nicaraguan Contras. Defiance was baked into his DNA.
Rikki paced like a restless lioness, her fatigues splotched in Marcos’s blood. If looks could kill, the prisoner would’ve dropped dead.
Karl wiped sweat from his forehead. He was very tall, with powerfully-built shoulders fit for a bison. “Listen, mate,” Karl addressed Marcos in his thick Aussie brogue. “I’m actually a real nice guy.” He gestured at a seething Rikki and the man in this stuffy room’s rear, the lights swinging overhead. “Ask my pals.”
Karl bent over, getting in Marcos’s face. “But your group is a problem for my employers,” he added menacingly. “Help me find your band of merry men…and women, or the beatings continue.”
Marcos trembled, one eye swollen shut, face severely bruised. He opened his mouth, dark blood dribbling down his chin.
The man in the back pushed off the wall in anticipation. “Fuck. You,” Marcos snarled with a thick Nicaraguan accent. He hawked and spat bloody phlegm in Karl’s face.
Rikki came boiling forward. But Karl snaked an arm out, holding her back.
The Aussie wiped the spittle from his beard. “Fair enough.” Karl grunted. His features darkened an instant before he backhanded Marcos, nearly knocking the prisoner and chair over. He kept raining down fists on the Marcos, vicious wet smacks filling the room.
The man in the back watched blankly, his long-sleeved tee and fatigue pants dampened only by sweat. Months ago, this wanton brutality would’ve horrified him. But everything he’d endured this past year had left a black hole where his heart had once resided.
Breaking Marcos de Silva was just another lesson from these cutthroat mercenaries. Plus, Marcos’s face irked him. That wizened glare of disdain.
Like my father. And Greyson Hirsch hated his father. He watched Karl double Marcos over with another gut punch. Greyson’s smile widened.
“We’re going on three days,” Rikki complained minutes later, throwing her hands up. She stood with Greyson and Karl in a narrow hall outside the room among other teammates. “de Silva ain’t cracking.”
Karl toweled Marcos’s blood from his face. “And we don’t know where or when these Aristides fanatics will stage their next attack.”
“What now?” asked Saed, a stocky Indian man with earrings and a large rifle he called ‘Bessy.’
All eyes were on the Vertebreakers’ leader, Alonzo Ellis, whose word was law. “More waterboarding,” Alonzo asserted casually. “Everyone h
as a breaking point.”
A dozen other mercs offered up better torture methods. So far, Greyson had only worked field missions for the Vertebreakers. Never interrogations. He rubbed at his buzzcut head and cleared his throat. “I’ll take a crack at him.”
All heads turned.
Rikki scoffed. “You’re good at killing, newbie. Let the adults handle the torture part, cupcake.” Everyone laughed.
Greyson didn’t flinch from the mockery or Rikki. “Because you’ve been so successful with de Silva."
Karl choked. Laughter turned into Oooohs like in high school.
Rikki turned brick-red. “Excuse you?” She moved toward Greyson.
Alonzo stepped in her way. “Hey!” He grabbed Rikki’s face, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Everyone’s upset.”
Alonzo cast a cold look at Greyson to dress him down. Greyson steeled himself for the scolding.
“Y’know what?” the dark-skinned man decided, scratching his stubbly jaw. “Have a go at him.”
Karl’s shoulders sagged both in relief and disappointment.
“I can break him,” Rikki asserted, betrayal in her voice.
Greyson shrugged. “Then you would’ve already, Rikki.” More catcalls. He walked back to the makeshift prison cell, smirking at the scuffling noises as someone restrained Rikki again.
“Get the job done, cupcake,” Karl barked after him.
Greyson entered the dim cell and closed the door, wrinkling his nose at the stench. Marcos sat slumped in his chair, a battered and bloodied mess. When Greyson approached, the prisoner’s head lifted somewhat to acknowledge him.
Despite his sorry physical state, Marcos smiled. His remaining teeth were red with blood. “Think you can break me?” He coughed, head drooping. “Forget it.”
Having observed his coworkers’ failures, Greyson had a different plan. He produced a smooth stone from his pocket and placed it on the flat of de Silva’s left foot above the pulled toenails. He stepped back, arms behind his back, and focused on the stone. Power leaked through his feet from the very earth, flooding Greyson’s limbs.
Marcos’s punched-out face tensed. He began squirming. “What are you doing?” He gaped at the stone weighing down on his foot. “It…so heavy.”