by M. O. Mack
Frankly, it terrified her. It meant she was not in control of the rage inside her—just one more reason she had to get away from all this.
“Charge, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” She reached out, hoping to get him to listen, but the moment she touched his back, he whipped around and slammed her against the wall.
The rage in his eyes made her heart stop. For a second.
“Don’t.” He pointed an angry finger in her face. “Don’t ever do that again. It’s not just you I’m responsible for, it’s them, too.”
Her insides shaking, she inhaled slowly. “I know,” she said quietly. “I’m just really fucked up inside, and I don’t know how to fix it.” She drew a breath, fighting the tears. “It’s why I can’t take your job, Charge. I’m not brave like you, strong like you.”
“You grabbed a gun, jumped into a fucking cab, and tried to rescue me. You never ran from anything I threw at you.” Suddenly his eyes were on her lips, and his voice quieted. “You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever met.”
The moment instantly turned to something else. Their bodies were pushed together, pumping with adrenaline, both sets of lungs breathing hard. His solid body against her soft everything triggered something intense and deep inside her core. It was so totally unexpected that her breath hitched.
He suddenly snapped out of it, releasing her with a slur of cuss words, then, “I need to finish the call. Go to your room.”
She glared at the back of his thick head of dark hair. “I’m not your child.”
“Then stop acting like it!”
He returned to the living room. She went to her room, needing a breather after—well, whatever that was. She also knew that pushing him any further would only lower her chances of getting his support for this job. Bottom line though, she’d said her piece. Whatever happened now was out of her hands. They were either in or they weren’t.
God, I hope they say yes. If not, she had no idea how she’d ever get those women free and stop Ed from obtaining more “inventory,” as he called them, some too young to survive the brutality. They’d never stand a chance.
* * *
A half hour later, Charge knocked on the bedroom door. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. No matter what he said, she needed to be respectful and keep her cool. She owed him that. He had at least given her the opportunity to make her case, and he had been instrumental in saving her life. Of course, it wouldn’t have needed saving if he hadn’t pulled her into a real-life episode of Narcos.
“Come in,” she said.
Charge entered, bringing with him a gust of cold vibes. She could tell he was still reeling from her little stunt. “They said yes.”
Her jaw dropped, and her heart soared. “They did?”
“One condition,” he added. “If the money’s not there, they’ll shoot you.”
She laughed, but he wasn’t laughing with her. “Oh shit. You’re serious.”
He folded those big arms over his chest. The authority move again. “They’re going to put their lives on the line for this, and they need to know you’re not jerking them around. If you fully understand that you will be executed if the money’s not there, then they’ll do the job on credit.”
Her mouth twisted to one side. Basically, he was saying that if she was willing to stake her life on that money, then they were, too.
Well, she wasn’t lying, and she would bet her life on that money being somewhere near her old house. They would find it as long as they were able to make Ed give up the location. But, more importantly, this was happening. They were doing the job!
“Agreed.” She folded her arms over her chest, mimicking his pose. “They may shoot me if the money isn’t there.”
He didn’t react or seem to care one little bit about this term of the arrangement. It was strange how he could turn his emotions on and off.
“Good. Then we start preparations tomorrow after they finish a job in the morning.” He pulled a pad of paper from the back of his jeans and tossed it on the bed. “Make notes. List the names, physical descriptions, roles in the organization, official jobs, anything else you know about them.” He turned to leave.
“Thank you!” she blurted out. “I really mean that.”
“Don’t thank me. It was the team’s decision.”
“Yeah, but I bet they don’t do anything without a nod from you,” she pointed out.
He toggled his head noncommittally.
She smiled. He had helped. That little vein of heroism running through his cold heart was larger than he let on.
“Get to work,” he grunted, and started to leave again.
“Can I go with them?”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Absolutely not.”
“I want to be there. I want to make sure Ed knows.”
“Knows what?” he asked.
“That karma finally showed up for its pound of flesh.”
“He’ll know. I’ll make sure of it,” he said, his voice an octave lower.
“You’re going?”
This time, Charge didn’t bother to look at her. “Absolutely.” There was a sinister growl in his tone, like he was out for blood.
It took her by surprise.
Charge left, and she stood there digesting. Somehow this had become personal to Charge. She didn’t know why, and she doubted he’d ever tell her. Maybe he simply didn’t like the Eds of the world.
Or maybe it was like he said: the people on the team had all experienced some kind of personal loss that drove them to do what they did.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Emily spent the entire night and the next morning, too, making detailed notes about Ed and his men. There were eight primary people besides her husband. One guy handled “new inventory.” Two managed the existing girls—keeping them in line and drugged. Another handled “customer service,” talking to clients and managing bookings. One handled the housekeeping and maintenance staff—a few people who were probably threatened to work there, but preferred not to. Two more men were in charge of security and collecting payments. Cash only. She wasn’t sure, but she thought those guys also handled women who needed to be “fired.” That’s what she’d heard them call it on poker night. Her guess was they just took them out on Ed’s boat, put a weight around their ankles, and dumped them in the ocean.
The building where the girls “worked” and “lived” was located about ten blocks west of the casino strip in Atlantic City and was officially registered as a “members-only poker club,” where no one would bat an eyelash at the people coming and going at all hours. Still, the location alone wasn’t enough to ensure things ran smoothly. Ed also kept tabs on the Gaming Commission, including possible surprise inspections by officials not on the take.
Ed’s brother, Merrill, a cop in Atlantic City, helped out from time to time when clients got out of hand. Those two guys got a bigger chunk of the profits because of their riskier roles. Twenty percent each.
By the time she was done with her notes, Charge had information pertaining to the group’s favorite sandwich shop, the cars they drove, and their music preferences. When one spent every Wednesday night for three years listening to these assholes mouth off after too many beers, on top of hanging with their wives at parties, you learned a few things. She’d learned to listen.
Most importantly, she’d learned that the more they drank, the more they blabbed. Sloppy as hell. Which was exactly why she’d started stocking up on top-shelf whisky and vodka and kept the drinks flowing until they’d nearly pass out. She’d even researched what kinds of snacks make a person feel drunker. Basically, no carbs. Nothing spongey to slow the absorption of alcohol. Chicken wings, pigs in a blanket, or prosciutto-wrapped cheese. Not only did the guys think she was pampering them, but Ed usually gave her a break from the beatings.
“Good job, babe. Good job.” Then he’d pass out.
God, I so want to be there and just punch him in the balls one time before he dies. Emily finished the last page o
f notes, forty-five altogether. Not on purpose—that was just the way it landed—but she took it as a good sign.
Exhausted from having zero sleep, she got up from the armchair and plopped down on the bed. Just a quick nap. Then she could go over everything with Charge.
When she opened her eyes some hours later, Emily instantly knew something was off. The light coming through the window was bright—midday—her notes were missing from the small table, and there was one piece of paper in their place.
She scrambled from the bed and grabbed the letter. Her eyes scanned the lines frantically. The pit in her stomach grew larger with each word:
Emily,
I understand that you are no longer accustomed to taking orders from anyone, and while I respect that, I am asking you to do this one thing. Please. As a favor to me. Stay here. Do not go to town. Do not call or talk to anyone. Do not use your phone to surf the web and scan the news. You never know who is monitoring search terms.
If you can’t do it for me or even for yourself, then do it for the forty-five. There is no room for error or surprises on this job, and Ed is looking for you, which means the FBI is looking for you.
If you don’t hear from me in ten days, take the money, the gun, and the envelope I left in the drawer under the microwave and run. Forget Ed. Forget the women. Move on.
Trust me when I say that living for vengeance means living for your enemies. It taints anything you have left, including the good memories.
Keep this photo safe for me. Take it with you as a reminder of what I said. – C
She reached inside the envelope. There was a small photo of a beautiful blonde girl in her cap and gown. Emily looked closer. The girl couldn’t be older than seventeen or eighteen. She had Charge’s gray eyes. Something in the chin looked familiar, too.
She flipped the photo over.
In the same handwriting as the letter, the words “Ed’s first victim” were written.
“No.” It couldn’t be. The blood in her veins chilled. The photo slipped from her hand and fell to the hardwood floor.
Emily covered her mouth. She’d known that Ed had a girlfriend before her. She’d found a photo up in the attic, buried under some old clothes, right after she’d married him on a whim because she’d been too desperate for attention from any living soul to see him for who he was.
For a few short months, he was her prince charming, making her feel important and loved. He took her dancing, he brought her flowers, he looked at her with what she’d thought was love. She told herself that her unlucky streak was over and to trust her heart. She’d finally found a home. But soon after, she started to see another side of him, and the day she’d found that photo was the first time he hit her. Not the last.
“Nosy bitches, the both of you,” he’d said, referring to herself and the woman in the photo.
She’s Ed’s ex…
Emily picked up the photo again and stared at those sweet, kind eyes looking back. She didn’t know who this woman was to Charge—his sister? A friend’s daughter? It didn’t matter, really. What did was that this girl had been Ed’s first victim. What mattered was that the girl meant something to Charge—enough that he had a photo.
How in the world did I end up in El Paso, working with Charge? What were the odds that she’d land on his doorstep? That he’d be a hit man who knew who she was? That they would have a vendetta against the same person?
Emily set the photo on the bed and scrubbed her face with her palms. This is crazy. He’d known all along about their connection but decided not to tell her. There had to be a reason.
She stared into the dark, empty fireplace. He didn’t need me to kill Ed. He never did. He had the men, the guns, and the ability all along. So why wait until now to take Ed out?
The only reasonable explanation had to do with “the rules.” Charge believed in them, one being to never use the team for personal vendettas or greed.
“Charge…” He should have said something. Of course, what was there to say? That fate or luck had intervened and brought them together? She didn’t believe in that crap, but it made her think of something her dad used to say: “Baby, sometimes life hands you lemons. Sometimes, it hands you sweet juicy apples, but when you see fingers, don’t ask why.”
She never understood what he meant until now. The fingers were attached to a hand, and when life offered one, it was best to be thankful. Bottom line, this detour to El Paso, to suite forty-five, had turned out to be more than just a pit stop on a very difficult journey. For the very first time since her aunt Mary had died, Emily felt like someone was looking out for her, telling her not to lose faith in this world.
Yeah. Well, we’ll see if I’m right. If she was, Charge would come through that door and tell her she was safe. Forever.
God, please let him come back. Please…
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ten days. Ten days of hell. Ten days of handwashing her horrible pink outfit. Ten days of pacing the two-bedroom cabin. Ten days of resisting her phone to search the news. Ten days of playing with Charge’s stupid AM/FM radio, hoping to hear anything going on in the outside world. Ten days of canned vegetables and frozen pizzas left in Charge’s freezer.
Today was the deadline. Charge said if he didn’t come back, she was supposed to take the gun, the money, and the contents of the envelope, which she’d refused to open. She refused to accept defeat.
But now it was time. He hadn’t come. He hadn’t called. Something went wrong. I can feel it.
“Screw it!” She went to the drawer and pulled out the gun and money, setting them both on the butcherblock counter. She took the envelope and opened it. Inside was a bus ticket north and a ferry ticket to a place in Alaska. There was also a set of keys with a paper tag and an address attached.
The note inside simply said, Good luck.
Oh my God. Her heart felt like it’d hit the floor. This was it? This was how it all ended?
No. Fuck this. She got out her phone and started scanning the online news in Jersey, careful not to search anything in particular.
Nothing. Not a word about shoot-outs or prostitution busts. Nothing about a missing FBI agent or a manhunt.
Sour notes strummed inside her stomach. The lack of news could mean Charge and the team had been killed. It could also mean they did the job, and Ed and his team had been wiped off the face of the earth but no one noticed them missing yet. What worried her most, however, was the fact that Charge hadn’t returned.
She hung her head. There was no way to know for sure, but she knew she couldn’t wait here to find out the truth. Charge could have been captured and tortured for information. Ed would want to know who’d sent him.
She put the items Charge had left into her purse, except for the photo. That went into the pocket of her pink hoodie. She felt obligated to keep it safe for him. Whoever Ed’s ex was, she held a place in Charge’s heart.
Emily opened the front door and froze, staring down the pine-tree-lined dirt road. Walking away felt like giving up. It felt like accepting defeat and saying that those women’s lives didn’t matter. Justice didn’t matter. Helping Charge didn’t matter.
She didn’t know how long she stood there debating over going back to El Paso to find out what had happened—to the place where she might track down the team. All she knew was everything inside her fought. To leave like this simply felt like running towards a coward’s life.
Emily slipped the photo of Ed’s ex-girlfriend from her pocket. Charge had known how hard it would be for her to walk away, but he’d also wanted her to know that if he died, it was for the girl in this photo. Emily was obliged to make some sort of meaning from it all.
She sighed and stepped outside, closing the door behind her.
* * *
Emily sat at the small bus terminal next to the laundromat and gas station, where weekend campers and logging trucks pulled off for fuel, snacks, or ice. And to wash clothes, apparently.
She checked the bus route number show
n on her ticket. It would take her north to Albuquerque, then on to Denver, where she would have to change buses to get to Seattle. The trip would take four days total, excluding the one-day ferry ride to Alaska—to some small fishing town north of Ketchikan, called Wrangell, which was inaccessible by car.
Honestly, none of this felt real. Her mind was still back in that cabin, waiting for things to finally be set right. That was the path she was supposed to be on. That was the life she could see so clearly in her head. Not this.
She cracked open a Diet Pepsi and sat back against the plexiglass of the bus stop. It was starting to sprinkle right in the middle of June.
She pulled the pink hoodie from the plastic grocery bag she’d used to carry her few belongings. Funny how she looked like a penniless drifter, even though she had ten thousand dollars cash on her person—thanks to Charge’s generosity, which she’d never understand, since the first twenty K was still back in her studio, waiting for the landlord to discover.
Suddenly, a dark blue pickup truck with tinted windows pulled in front of the bus stop. Maybe someone being dropped off?
But no one got out.
Shit. She slid her hand into her shopping bag just as the window on the passenger side lowered.
Two cool gray eyes looked back at her.
“Oh my God!” She jumped up and grabbed her stuff. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Get in. We need to talk.” Charge’s dark brows were furrowed with intense emotion, and his lips, framed by a thick black wash of stubble, were set in a firm line. He had dark circles under his eyelids, like he hadn’t slept in days, and the whites of his eyes were red. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he’d been… No. Impossible. Guys like him don’t cry.
Whatever the case, something was wrong.
She hopped inside, resisting the urge to make assumptions. Or throw her arms around him. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
He grunted something and pulled around to the back of the building, out of sight from the main road.