So Wrong It's Right

by Julie Johnson

  “Do you see it?”

  “It’s not here!”

  I can’t help smiling a little.

  Oh, boys. You got played even worse than I did. And that’s really saying something, since I’m about one sneeze away from triggering an accidental explosion.

  My eyes slide to the window. I feel a thread of hope weave through me at the sight of the black SUVs pulling to a stop at the curb.

  “We’ve got company!” Righty shouts. “Fuck, that was fast. Not even two minutes. How the hell do they already know we’re here?”

  “Almost like they knew we were coming,” his brother hisses, grabbing me by the arm and jerking me around to face him. His skin is mottled purple with anger. “Listen, you little bitch. We need your fucking paperweight,” he spits the word. “Where is it? We’ve checked the desk.”

  “Oh… Hmmm…” I stall.

  “Don’t trifle with me, bitch! Or I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” I snap, fed up with his threats. “Blow me up? Please, if you’re going to… make sure to do it while I’m standing right next to you.”

  “Shut your mouth, you little whore!” He waves the detonator darkly. “I promise, nothing will give me more pleasure than the moment I get to snuff out your life.”

  “I’m your only bargaining chip to get out of here, now that they’ve arrived.” I jerk my chin toward the window.

  I think his head might pop off, he’s so furious. “We need that fucking paperweight! Do you understand me? Now find it so we can get the fuck out of here before more arrive.”

  Unhurriedly, I walk over to the bookcase, reach inside, and pluck an item off the bottom shelf. I turn and extend it toward Lefty.

  “Here,” I tell him sweetly. “This is the only paperweight I own.”

  If I’m going to die, might as well do it with flair.

  A dangerous glint creeps into his eyes as he stares at the gold and glass orb I got in a Yankee Swap two Christmases ago from one of the other yoga instructors at Aimee’s studio. While it’s very pretty… we had a $20 limit.

  Slight difference from the $20 million Fabergé Egg he’s looking for.

  I see the moment my duplicity clicks inside his head. Taking me by the shoulders, he shakes me so hard my teeth clack together. So hard, I’m worried he’s going to trigger the bomb around my chest and blow us both to hell.

  “You played us! You fucking played us!”

  Righty appears, looming beside his brother. Double trouble. “What are you talking about Vik?”

  “She lied! The fucking Egg isn’t here!”

  “Egg?” I ask innocently. “What egg?”

  He shoves me aside with a growl and paces toward the window. His face gets even redder when he steals a glance outside and takes in the sheer number of agents on my street. In the distance, four shots ring out in quick succession.

  “FUCK!” Lefty bellows. “They just shot the van’s tires.”

  “Vik, relax. SWAT won’t come in here without the bomb squad. They learned that lesson the hard way last week,” Righty says, smirking as he grabs his gun off the table.

  It’s a huge semi-automatic rifle with a long scope and a curved magazine clip. My mouth goes dry at the sight, envisioning the kind of damage a weapon like that could do to a person.

  “Vlad, they’ve got snipers taking up positions on fucking roof across the street!”

  “Then I suggest you get away from the window, Vik.” He exhales. “Look, if we stick to the plan, we’ll be fine. That’s why we have her, isn’t it?” His chin jerks at me. “She’s our ticket out of here. They can’t kill us so long as we have a hostage.”

  “Yes, but Alexei will kill us if we go back without the Egg. And now we don’t even know where it is, thanks to this suka’s lies.”

  “We’ll get back to Moscow and explain—”

  I laugh. I can’t help it.

  Both brothers look at me darkly. “What the fuck are you laughing about?”

  “Sorry to interrupt.” I snort, shaking my head. “I just can’t believe you two idiots still haven’t figured out what’s going on here. I mean, there’s slow, and then there’s the two of you.”

  They stare at me.

  I sigh. “You’re never getting back to Moscow.”

  “What?” Lefty hisses.

  “Alexei needed you to create a distraction, something to draw the FBI’s attention. Right?” I shrug. “This is the distraction. You are the distraction. Not me and my little bomb vest. This entire thing.”

  They stare at me, clearly not understanding.

  Poor Vik and Vlad. They may be talented bomb makers, but they’re not particularly bright.

  “Your boss sent you here to be his fall guy. A diversion to distract the FBI so he can get out of this country unscathed,” I say slowly, as if I’m talking to third graders. “My guess? He’s speeding down the runway as we speak in his private jet, sipping a cold glass of champagne. Or whiskey. Vodka? Hell, I don’t know what Russian crime lords drink.”

  Lefty strides back to me, his expression full of wrath. “That is not true.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” I blink up at him, eyes wide. “He insisted you come here, even though he knew the FBI was all over this place. You said it yourself — they got here so fast. Almost like someone tipped them off.”

  “Alexei would never do that! Not to his own men.”

  “See, I think you’re wrong. I think he’d do exactly that. And I know, from reading about his past exploits, this wouldn’t even be the first time he’s done it.” I shake my head. “He let his first wife take the fall for him back in the ‘80s when he was charged with tax evasion. He implicated his own business parter for fraud in ’94 when he wanted an excuse to turn their partnership into a sole-proprietorship.” I tilt my head, glancing from one brother to the other. “Alexei Petrov evaluated this situation and did exactly what he always does — he ensured his own survival. Then, he cut his losses and headed for the hills.”

  “But.. The Nécessaire…”

  “Oh, I’m sure, when things calm down, he’ll send someone else to retrieve his precious Fabergé Egg.” I sigh. “But I’m afraid, by then, it’ll be long over for you boys.”

  Lefty’s mouth is pursed, his nostrils flared. As much as he doesn’t want to believe what I’m saying, I can see by the look in his eyes that he does.

  “It’s not true,” Righty murmurs, but his voice is unsure. “Don’t let this bitch get in your head, Vik.”

  “Think about it,” I murmur. “Two birds, one stone. He escapes home while the FBI cleans up the mess for him by getting rid of…” Eyeing them, I make a tsk sound. “Two assets who, let’s face it, have totally bungled this whole Egg fiasco up right from the beginning.”

  With a growl of rage, Lefty punches me in the face.

  I knew it was coming. Hell, I didn’t even try to brace for it as his fist hits me square in the mouth. I taste the copper tang of blood and blink away tears as stars spin before my eyes.

  At least I didn’t pass out, this time.

  The Evanoffs are talking rapidly in Russian. Bickering, from the sound of it. Which was exactly my intention. I may not have many cards left to play, here… and I’m probably going to die regardless of what I do… but damned if I’m going down without a fight. And maybe, if I can stall them long enough for the FBI to get in position… then at least I’ll go out knowing the Evanoff boys will never be free to hurt anyone else ever again. I’ll meet my maker with the knowledge that I tried my best to level the playing field.

  For Sykes, lying unresponsive in a hospital bed.

  For three SWAT team members blown to pieces.

  For five Americans in an Embassy ten years ago.

  And for me.

  My head is still reeling when I hear the sound of a bullhorn blasting from the street. My heart clenches when I recognize the voice as Kaufman’s.

  “EXIT THE HOUSE WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!”

  Wiping a trickle of blood fro
m the corner of my mouth, I look from one brother to the other and strive to keep my voice light. “If you turn yourselves in now, I promise this will go better for you.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, bitch?” Lefty hisses.

  “Since you asked — yes. Yes, I would.”

  “You’ve got a smart mouth. But I think you’re forgetting about this.” He shakes me by the arm, holding up the detonator for emphasis. “One push, you’re pink mist.”

  I go still.

  It’s easier to be brave about this whole situation when I don’t think too specifically about the bomb belted just beneath my boobs, like the worst push up bra ever created.

  “SEND OUT YOUR HOSTAGE!” Kaufman’s voice blasts into the air again. “THEN COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!”

  Lefty’s eyes narrow. “You think this is over? You think you won? Think again. I’ve already killed four FBI agents this week. If I’m going down… I plan on taking a few more with me.”

  Grabbing his gun in one hand and my arm in the other, he drags me down the hallway. I hear his brother close on our heels, saying something, but my mind is spluttering inside my skull, caught up on one word.

  Four.

  He said four FBI agents.

  But…

  That’s not possible.

  That cannot be possible.

  Because I know for a fact that only three died in the bomb blast in East Boston. And as of this morning, Sykes was critical-but-stable in the ICU.

  Which means…

  Someone else is dead.

  A fourth FBI agent.

  A face flashes in my head before I can stop it — messy black hair falling into dark blue eyes. Killer smile, on the rare occasion he lets it show. Mouth that melts me into an emotional puddle, whether he’s using it to kiss me or telling me he loves me.

  All day, since I opened that safe house door and saw the Evanoffs standing there instead of Conor, I have refused to entertain the possibility that he might be… that he’s…

  I can’t even think the word.

  My brain instantly rejects the mere idea of it, like a vending machine spitting out a crumpled dollar bill. Because a world without Conor Asshole Gallagher would simply be…

  Unbearable.

  I don’t know when it happened, or even how. I cannot trace the exact moment, cannot pick out the precise instant my heart changed from despising him to something entirely different. Something like…

  Devotion.

  I know it’s crazy. A week ago he was a stranger. He burst into my life, full of bossy demands and dark scowls and gruff orders, and flipped it upside down. And every day since, he has pushed me. Challenged me. Inspired me. Infuriated me.

  He has sparked my temper and delved my deepest secrets. He has expanded my emotional limits and fucked my body beyond the brink of pleasure. He has awoken something inside me I didn’t even know was there until he coaxed it out.

  Not with gentle hands and false promises; with stark truths and brute force.

  Maybe at first, I didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to acknowledge how much I needed him. How much I wanted him. How similar we are, from the unrelenting stubborn streak to the disapproving parental figures to the tendency for self-imposed isolation. But now, as I stand here on the brink of losing him, I see it. I see it so clearly. And all I feel is regret that it took me so damn long.

  I should’ve told him.

  I should’ve said it back.

  I shouldn’t have been so fucking scared of getting hurt again that I pushed away a man so well-suited for me, it’s like I dreamed him into existence one detail at a time.

  I shake my head in disbelief.

  He can’t be dead.

  Then why is it Kaufman on the bullhorn? a small voice questions. If he could call out to you right now… don’t you think he would?

  I shove the voice away, banish it to the back of my mind. Shove it away in a box and lock it up tight with a thousand loops of unbreakable chain.

  In a daze of shock, I don’t struggle as the Evanoffs drag me through the house, avoiding windows and open expanses in case the snipers decide to try their luck. We make our way to the garage door off the kitchen and Lefty grins as he grabs the keys to my convertible from the hook.

  I have a distinct feeling that whatever’s about to happen will not be good. But somehow, in the sudden numbness of shock over Conor’s unknown fate… I find it hard to drum up a suitable amount of concern for my own.

  Stepping into the attached garage, Lefty scans the space, looking from the retractable door to my sporty black coup and finally back to me.

  “Sorry. Only two seats in this ride.” He smirks at me and holds up the detonator. “Looks like you’ve reached the end of your road, Shelby Hunt.”

  There’s a harsh grating sound and a mechanical buzz as the garage door slowly begins to peel open. I stand before it like a statue, watching as the gap widens from a sliver to a foot. From one foot to six to twelve. I hold my breath until it’s rolled all the way up in the ceiling, praying like hell the snipers don’t take me down.

  The door falls silent and my eyes focus on the world beyond.

  There’s a sea of black police vehicles facing the house, their doors ajar to shield the agents sheltering behind them. I see gun barrels braced against car hoods and window frames.

  I wonder how many sights are trained on me right now.

  I’d swear, there’s a collective intake of air as I raise my arms slowly above my head and take my first step out of the garage, into the driveway — the sound of fifty FBI agents spotting my explosive vest all at once. I take another few steps, coming to a stop when Lefty honks the horn sharply from inside the garage.

  You will do exactly what I tell you, he told me ten minutes ago, his eyes gleaming in a scary, unhinged sort of way. And the second you don’t comply… boom goes the dynamite. Got it?

  I don’t doubt his intentions for a second. Nor am I surprised by them. As soon as this plan came into being back at the construction site, I somehow knew I’d wind up here. One button-click away from blinking out of existence. Standing entirely on my own.

  Alone.

  Even now, in the end.

  It shouldn’t bother me. For my entire adult life, I’ve perfected the art of being alone. I’ve been so good at it, sometimes I’ve scare myself with my own freakish self-sufficiency. In the question of what I’m more afraid of — being alone or being rejected — the answer was always so clearly rejection.

  Because being alone was easier.

  In fact, for a very long time, it was almost too easy.

  But now, as I stand here on my own, with the sun streaming down around me like a freaking halo of light, glinting off the dark panels of plastic explosives on the belt around my waist…

  I don’t want to be alone, anymore.

  I’d give anything to not be alone.

  I would happily face a hundred rejections from Conor if it meant there was even one half-chance at having even a bit more time with him. If he could be here now, his arms holding me close, his mouth pressing against mine.

  Maybe it’s better if he’s not here, I lie to myself. It would be much harder to say goodbye with him standing in front of you now, at the end.

  “I’m Shelby Hunt!” I call out, my voice stretched thin as it tries to fill the void of silence surrounding me. “They say they’ll detonate the bomb in my vest if anyone shoots. They say they want free passage out of the city. Otherwise… I die.”

  The world stops turning.

  I stand with my hands above my head, afraid to move. Afraid to breathe too heavily, lest I somehow disturb the homemade explosives. My eyes sweep the crowd of FBI agents, seeking out familiar faces.

  One in particular.

  But he’s nowhere. Not with Kaufman and Evelson by the bullhorn. Not with the plainclothes officers standing to the sidelines. Not with the uniformed BPD officers at the far end of the street, setting up a strict traffic cordon.

  Conor
Gallagher is nowhere to be found.

  A tear streaks down my cheek — the first one I’ve allowed to escape all day. And while I’m sure everyone in the crowd of onlookers thinks I’m crying with fright over my own incendiary predicament…

  It’s not about me at all.

  It’s about him.

  It’s about the truth I can no longer deny, or look away from, or lock up in a box inside my head.

  In my heart I know, the only reason he’s not here right now, standing in that crowd… is because he can’t be. Because something is keeping him from me.

  I hear Lefty’s voice.

  I’ve already killed four agents…

  He’s dead.

  Conor Gallagher is dead.

  The bomb hasn’t exploded yet, but my heart — oh, my aching, breaking heart — detonates into a zillion pieces inside my chest.

  For a long time, no one seems to do a damn thing.

  I have a feeling there’s a flurry of discussion going on behind the scenes — pros and cons being weighed, ideas being proposed, strategies being suggested — but from my perspective everything has gone totally quiet. Only the faint sound of the engine rumbling behind me inside the garage; the restless shifting of men in heavy body armor ahead of me.

  A sudden screech of tires splits the air.

  My head whips toward the sound. In fact, every head in a two block radius whips toward the sound. All I can do is watch as a black Jeep Wrangler flies down the street, around the police barricade that’s been set up to cordon off any incoming traffic. Whoever is driving appears to be a total maniac — hopping curbs and front lawns, dodging mailboxes and parked cars with seemingly no regard for traffic rules, let alone the fact that there’s a very active hostage situation unfolding right now.

  My heart is in my throat as the Wrangler slams to a stop at the end of the driveway. And a tremble moves through my whole body, from the tips of my fingers still pointed at the sky to my bare, bloody toes pressed against the smooth stone. Because there’s a man hopping down from the driver’s side, dressed all in black despite the summer day — from his shirt to his pants to his badass motorcycle boots. A man with the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. A man who is unquestionably, heart-stoppingly…