Cruel Paradise
J.T. Geissinger
Contents
1. Jules
2. Killian
3. Jules
4. Jules
5. Jules
6. Jules
7. Jules
8. Jules
9. Killian
10. Jules
11. Jules
12. Jules
13. Jules
14. Killian
15. Jules
16. Killian
17. Jules
18. Jules
19. Jules
20. Jules
21. Jules
22. Jules
23. Jules
24. Killian
25. Jules
26. Jules
27. Jules
28. Jules
29. Jules
30. Jules
31. Killian
32. Juliet
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by J.T. Geissinger
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2020 by J.T. Geissinger, Inc.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by J.T. Geissinger, Inc.
www.jtgeissinger.com
ISBN: 978-1-7338243-7-8
Cover design by Letitia Hasser
Printed in the United States of America
For Jay, my partner in crime.
For never was a story of more woe
than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
~ Romeo and Juliet, Act V, Scene III
1
Jules
“This is literally the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“I think it’s genius.”
Watching me with pursed lips and her arms folded over her chest in disapproval as I clumsily attempt to pick the lock, Fin snorts. “Yes, but you were dropped on your head a lot as a baby.”
“Will you be quiet? I’m almost in.”
“In jail, you mean. Incarcerated. Because in ten more seconds, I’m going to call the cops on you myself. You’re completely inept at breaking and entering. Especially the breaking part. I could die of old age before you’re finished.”
Standing six feet tall, with blonde hair that hangs halfway to her waist and a figure that stops men dead in their tracks, my best friend is as pretty as she is impatient. She’s also funny, whip smart, and an excellent thief, which is why I brought her with me tonight.
One needs a trusted accomplice when stealing two thousand boxes of diapers.
For moral support, if nothing else.
Not that she’s giving it to me.
Sighing, she says, “You’re a hot mess, girlfriend. I’ve seen better Dumpster fires.”
“If you’d shut up a minute, I could concentrate!”
She checks her watch, pressing a dial to illuminate the face, and impatiently starts counting seconds. “Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.”
“It’s a friggin’ padlock, and I’m using a friggin’ bobby pin! Gimme a break!”
“No excuses. I could’ve had it open a year ago. Six. Five. Four. Three.”
I give up, stand straight, and glare at her through the shadows. “Fine. You win. Tyrant.”
She slings the backpack off her shoulders, unzips it, removes a bolt cutter, and hands it to me with a smile. “Do you think you can cut through the chain yourself, princess, or will you need help with that, too?”
“Remind me to put hair remover in your shampoo bottle when we get home.”
I turn back to the lock. The bolt cutters efficiently snap through the metal links of the chain, and the chain slithers to the ground with the lock still attached at one end.
Fin holds out her hand. I pass her the bolt cutters. Back into her pack they go, then she pulls open the heavy door of the warehouse. We slip inside silently, take a moment to let our eyes adjust to the gloom, then locate what we came for.
Fully loaded and ready for tomorrow’s trip to the distribution center, the delivery truck sits at the far end of the loading dock’s bay.
We head toward it at an unhurried trot, our footsteps echoing off the high ceiling’s exposed rafters.
I say, “You’re sure you can get that thing started?”
She scoffs. “How dare you.”
“And you’re sure Max disabled the cameras and silent alarm?”
I’m not looking at Fin, but I swear I hear her eyes roll. “Yes, grandma. I’m positive. I should’ve made you pop a Xanax before we left.”
“But then I wouldn’t have been able to drive.”
“I hate to break it to you, but I’m driving.”
“You drive as well as you cook. I’m driving.”
“Excuse me, Martha Stewart, but not everyone has the cooking gene.”
“There’s no such thing as a cooking gene.”
“There totally is. You’re Italian. It’s in your DNA.”
“Ha! Maybe if you tried using the stove instead of a blowtorch to heat your food, you wouldn’t have so many problems.”
Fin waves a dismissive hand in the air, ending the conversation. She hates to be reminded of that time she set fire to the kitchen cooking stir fry with a metalworking tool.
When we get to the truck, we encounter the minor issue of the doors being locked. Fin uses the bolt cutters to smash the driver’s window, and the problem is solved. We climb inside.
She takes all of five seconds to hotwire it, the showoff.
When the engine roars to life with a satisfying belch from the tailpipe, I say, “Wait!”
Startled, she glances at me. “What?”
“I’m supposed to be driving.”
“Too bad, so sad, possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“How is that cliché applicable in this situation?”
She smiles. “My butt is already in possession of the driver’s seat. Besides, someone needs to roll up that…” She pauses, then says, “Oh.”
Her deflated tone makes my spinal nerves tingle. “Oh? What oh?”
“That oh.” She points beyond the windshield to the huge rolling metal door through which the delivery trucks enter and exit the bay.
That it’s closed isn’t the problem. The problem is the big steel locks anchored to the cement floor on either side at the bottom.
I stare at the locks, flabbergasted. “Shit!”
She says drily, “Well put, Shakespeare.”
“I thought Max took care of security?”
“Those locks must be brand new. That door was supposed to be able to be manually opened from the inside when the security system went down.”
“So what do we do? There’s no way the bolt cutters can get through metal that thick.”
Fin peers at the door for a moment. “Pray for a miracle?”
I throw my hands in the air. “Pray? Criminal masterminds don’t rely on a supreme being to get them out of tight spots! They go to plan B!” I pause. “What’s plan B?”
At least she has the decency to look sheepish. “We don’t have one.”
I groan. “No backup plan again? We’re terrible at this!”
She says defensively, “We’re not that bad.” Then, under her breath: “At least I know how to hotwire a vehicle.”
I stare at the door in frustration for several secon
ds, then pronounce, “Oh, screw it. We’ll improvise.”
She hoots. “Improvise? The last time you used that word, I ended up dangling from a sixth story hotel window.”
“You lived.”
“You do recall that the building was engulfed in flames at the time? And I was naked?”
I ignore her. “Just floor it. Petal to the metal. We’ll probably be able to smash through.”
She turns to me with arched brows. “Probably?”
I try to make my nod look firm and convincing. “This is a class seven rig with almost five hundred horse power. She’ll get it done.” I think for a moment. “Or we’ll die in a fiery explosion. Either way, it’ll be awesome.”
Fin stares at me like I’ve got horns growing out of my head. Then she grins. “And this is why we’re best friends, Thelma.”
I grin back. “I love you, too, Louise.”
She stomps her foot onto the gas pedal.
The truck lurches forward, diesel engine bellowing, tires pluming smoke.
We scream in unison at the top of our lungs as we rocket toward the metal roll up door.
2
Killian
Fascinated, I watch the security video on my computer’s screen over and over, replaying it so many times that Declan starts to fidget in impatience.
I glance up at him, standing beside the desk, six-plus feet of killing power with linebacker’s shoulders and eyes the color of a frozen artic lake that never thaws.
“Diapers.”
“Aye.” He shrugs, like he can’t understand it, either.
“What kind of thief steals a truck full of diapers and leaves the safe with three hundred grand in cash in it untouched?”
“One with a death wish, apparently.”
I rewind the video again, shaking my head in disbelief as the truck plows through the steel door at top speed.
It’s like a scene from an action movie.
There’s no sound, but I can imagine the deafening racket it must’ve made as metal met metal. First, the massive door bows in the middle, warping out of shape. Then it rips clean off from the building at the top, slamming forward onto the ground with a billowing cloud of dust and sparks.
The bottom of the door stays bolted to the cement, forcing the truck to fly into the air as it careens over a pile of crumpled metal.
As it lands, the truck swerves wildly. It appears about to topple over onto its side, but the driver regains control, straightens the vehicle, and speeds off through the empty parking lot, vanishing from the camera’s sight.
“The cameras at the warehouse were disabled, but I got this from the clothing manufacturer across the street. We tapped into their security system to see if they caught anything, and Bob’s your uncle. Unfortunately, this is the only angle that caught our diaper pincher on film.”
“Any prints at the scene?”
“No. They must’ve worn gloves.”
I sit back into the large captain’s chair, wondering which of my many enemies is both dumb and suicidal enough to have attempted this bizarre theft.
Diapers. What the bloody hell?
We’re in the office in Liam’s penthouse. No—my penthouse. Even after a year of living here, it doesn’t feel like mine. Probably because my twin brother’s taste in interior décor would make Count Dracula feel right at home.
Everything is black. Glossy, cold, and black. It’s like living inside a very modern coffin.
Unfortunately, when you’re impersonating someone, you need to leave their uninspired choices in clothing, art, and furniture alone.
Bypassing the question of why the hell my brother owns a diaper factory, I say, “How much is a truckload of diapers worth?”
Declan lifts a muscular shoulder. “Maybe ninety grand.”
“That’s hardly worth the effort.”
“Agreed.”
“Especially considering there isn’t exactly a hot market for stolen nappies. How is this thief planning to get his money from the take? Garage sales? eBay?”
“Maybe he’s got a lot of kids.”
I have to admit, I enjoy Declan’s dry sense of humor.
The rest of his personality, however, I could do without.
“The diapers are low priority, but I’m concerned about the hacking of the security system. Someone’s got some smarts, even if it wasn’t the driver.”
“If you’re thinking it’s a crew, it’s not likely to be one from around here. The locals know that company belongs to Liam.” He pauses. “Sorry. You.”
I wave it off. I’m used to people calling me by my brother’s name by now. “See what you can find out. But keep it quiet.”
“You don’t want me to call O’Malley at the precinct and let him handle it?”
“No. I can’t have word getting out that the head of the Irish mafia had two thousand diapers snatched from under his nose. My reputation would be shot.”
Declan nods solemnly. “Next thing you know, old ladies will be holding up your convenience stores for Bingo money, and the Girl Scouts will challenge you to a turf war.”
He turns and leaves before I can tell him to piss off, the smart ass.
I’ve forgotten about the purloined diapers until Declan strolls back into my office at six that evening.
I’m still sitting in the captain’s chair. Stacks of reports, statements, and contracts requiring my signature crowd the large mahogany desk in front of me.
Had I known there was so much paperwork involved in running an international criminal empire, I might not have volunteered for the job. And don’t get me started on the employee problems. You’d think grown men wouldn’t need so much supervision. I feel like I’m running a daycare center.
I look up to find Declan approaching. He’s carrying a laptop. His expression is solemn, but there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
I gesture to the chair across from my desk to indicate he should sit.
After he lowers his considerable bulk into the chair and gets settled, he strums his fingers thoughtfully on the closed lid of the Mac in his lap. “You believe in astrology?”
I say drily, “Sure. That and Big Foot, too.”
“Big Foot could be a real thing. I saw a show on the telly once—”
“Declan.”
“Sorry. Where was I?”
“About to get your block knocked off.”
“Oh, right. Astrology.” He pauses to look at me meaningfully. “Mercury is in retrograde.”
I gaze at him steadily from under lowered brows. “You’re aware, I assume, that I’m in possession of an extremely short temper and a large collection of guns? Several of which are within reach?”
Ignoring my threat, Declan continues. “The thing about Mercury is that it can be a trickster. Especially when in retrograde. Everything gets fucked up. Computers crash, flights get cancelled, contracts fall through.”
He takes another meaningful pause. “Things are backward.”
“You have three seconds to make your point before I put a bullet between your eyes.”
Declan smiles. “What would be the most backward thing you could think of about a man who’d steal a truckload of diapers?”
Honestly, if Liam didn’t like him so much, Declan would already be bleeding out on the Turkish rug.
Before I can riddle his body with bullet holes, he pronounces, “If the man were a woman.”
I take a moment to gauge if he’s joking. “A woman?”
Looking inexplicably pleased, he nods. “And not only one of them.”
When he doesn’t continue, I say, “If it takes you more than a single word to tell me how many women stole a goddamn truck full of goddamn diapers from me, I’ll separate your head from your body.”
“Two.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We stare at each other. Finally, I say, “You enjoy annoying me, don’t you?”
He shrugs. “Aye. Don’t take it personally. I just like to po
ke bears.”
My tone bone dry, I say, “Lucky me.”
“It took Liam about a decade to get used to me, so.” He shrugs again.
“A word of advice, Declan: my brother has all the patience in the family. I’m the one with the hair-trigger temper.”
He makes a face and shakes his head. “That’s what you want people to think. From what I’ve seen, you’re extremely methodical and precise. When you kill someone, you’ve been planning it for a long time.”
I resist the urge to sigh. Instead, I lean back in my chair, fold my hands over my stomach, and gaze at him.
After a while, he says, “Okay, so I’m thinking that look means you’ve already figured out how you’re going to kill me, and the next time I irritate you, I’ll find myself swinging from the rafters.”
“And the noose will be made of your own bowels.”
Picturing it, he grimaces. “Wow. You’re going full Hannibal Lecter on me.”
I allow my lips to curve into a faint, evil smile. “Aye. In several more minutes, I might be wearing your face as a mask. Tell me about the women.”
With a grudging grunt, he sits forward, sets the laptop on my desk, and opens it. He types on the keyboard for a moment, then turns the screen toward me.
I’m looking at a closeup of a large delivery truck. The shot is from the front. It’s grainy, but visible through the windshield are the driver and passenger of the truck.
The driver is a blonde. The passenger is a brunette. They’re not gazing out the windshield, but instead are looking at each other.
Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2) Page 1