by JL Mac
Wire transaction confirmation.
I frown and click on the email and stop dead causing a woman walking behind me to slam right into me. She huffs and stares at me in annoyance as she skirts around me. I lick my lips and blink my eyes. According to the email, a wire transfer in the amount of two hundred fifty thousand dollars has been received with a memo attached but there is no sender information.
For a rainy day.
Shake my head and scroll through the message one more time, sure that I have misread something. There is only one person on the planet that would send me that kind of cash, unsolicited. I clench my jaw and fire a text Lan’s direction.
Me: Can you acquire Beast’s phone number from Murphy for me?
Lan: How do you not have his number?
Me: I used to. I need to speak with him.
Ten minutes later as I am just settling in at work with a cup of coffee and a bagel, my phone chimes. The number she has sent me is the same one I have.
So he blocked me. Thanks, asshole.
I snag my desk phone from its cradle and jab his number on the keypad. Predictably, my call is routed directly to voicemail. The automated greeting doesn’t surprise me either.
“You know, I don’t need or want a damn thing from you. You made your view of me pretty clear last time I saw you, so stop the bullshit games and keep your money to yourself. Stay out of my life or I swear to Christ I’ll kill you myself,” I grit out quietly and end the call, slamming the phone down harder than necessary.
A part of me had hoped he would return my call and explain himself, or argue with me or apologize or tell me to fuck off… anything. But he never called and though I am working hard to convince myself that no news is good news, my brain refuses to believe it. I leave work feeling restless and frustrated. My eyes scan the street and I see no ominous black SUV. I internally chide myself for being ridiculous about the SUV this morning. It is entirely possible that it’s just a coincidence. I dip into the convenience store on my way home and buy a frozen pizza, a pint of chocolate ice cream and a bottle of cheap wine, which makes me laugh at the ridiculousness of my meager purchase. I have over a quarter of a million unwanted dollars just sitting in my bank account and I just spent eighteen bucks and forty-three cents. On Monday, I will be calling the bank to inform them that the wire transfer is a mistake and they need to return the money to Carrick.
That asshole.
I’m still furious, thinking about him sending me money—blood money no doubt—as if he is somehow still in my life. I exit the store and resume my route home when I see the stupid SUV again. If this is someone following me they aren’t making any effort whatsoever to conceal their surveillance of me. Also, something Carrick would do. I grit my teeth and ignore the vehicle for the rest of my walk home with an uncanny feeling of Carrick’s eyes roaming across my skin just as he had so many times before. I peer out my window blinds, cracking them the smallest amount. The SUV is gone.
Chapter Forty-Four
Beast
It looked bad. It felt a lot worse. But wasn’t that the point after all? I knew the look in her eyes the morning after our final night together meant she would be upset leaving after what we shared—that she would second guess and wonder what-if just as I am. I saw the emotion there, despite the finality I tried to convey and I too had to wonder. I pondered whether or not there was even the slightest chance that she would come back around, snoop, and demand answers. Lurk and pry her way into my head and home. I knew the answer was yes and despite how it made me feel, I went for the jugular. I knew it was entirely possible she could come back into my life and call me out on the floor, challenging me at every turn. I knew that I may cave under her green-eyed scrutiny and I also knew that under no circumstances could I—would I—allow harm from this fucked up life I live to find her. So… I did what I needed to do. I climbed into the ring, found her vulnerable spots and struck, sending her tumbling to the mat.
I was cold and indifferent after making love to her. I crashed her dinner, rubbed Kate in her face. I insulted and lied to her, and then confessed I essentially murdered her father myself. I drove the final nail in the coffin and now the only thing that brings me some peace is the knowledge that I kept my promise to Or and I have ensured her safety from her criminal underground roots here in Boston. I told myself I would get over it and doing what I did would help and maybe I even believed it for the first few weeks after I left her gasping, shocked and shaken, in a crying heap in that parking lot. Now? Well, now it’s difficult to believe I will just get over Ena when Murphy has all but taken over all business related duties while I stalk Ena from afar and work at piecing together exactly what happened twenty-three years ago when she was taken. As penance for my betrayal, I can offer Orin answers, at least. I can say for certain if there is any information regarding Ena Devlin/McCrae to be had, it’s already mine because I haven’t given up—I won’t give up.
No one has dared to comment on my renewed love of whiskey or the bags under my eyes. Or has withdrawn into his own world, deciding to renovate and update his greenhouse and garden shed well before the first bloom of the season. I drink to deal, and he toils away with gardening shit. Kate has finally taken the hint after I dragged her out of my office and into the parking lot one night where I reminded her in very colorful, clear terms that her ass would be out here permanently if she didn’t stay away from my office. The scent of that goddamn fruity shit she bathes in turns my gut. Mercedes hasn’t said as much but I can sense that she was sad to lose Ena as a friend. Frieda has been a godsend. She has kept things clean and in order at my house and has seen to my errands while I dig through every scrap of information about Ena’s kidnapping at my disposal. My cell phone buzzes and I glance at the screen. I disconnect my call voicemail messages to answer the incoming call. God knows listening to Ena’s pissed off message for the tenth time isn’t helping the void in my chest. Even angry and disgusted with me, she makes me ache to kiss her lips.
“Yeah,” I mutter into the phone.
“Sir, we’ve been made. Are you sure you want to continue such open surveillance?”
“Yes.”
“Sir, if I may—”
“You may not,” I announce dryly.
“Sir, the point of being a private investigator is to do it privately,” he argues sounding a lot like a whiny female.
“If you can’t fulfill my request then I’ll hire someone else.”
“Yes sir.”
“Anything else?”
“No sir. I’ll email your daily briefing to you now.”
I end the call without saying anything else. I hired this private investigator from Seattle to watch her and I made myself as clear as a person possibly can, but he isn’t on board with what I have paid good money for. Still, he’s the top PI in the state as far as I can tell, so I have indulged him thus far. Of course, he believes that Ena is my wife and I want her under surveillance. He believes my name is Carl Frederickson and I am concerned about infidelity. All lies designed to suit my agenda of course. I want Ena to see that she’s being watched because if Ena can notice the eyes on her so will any potential threat that might come around for her. While I am sorting out whether or not the rumors of retaliation are legitimate or not, it’s worth knowing I have eyes on the ground in Seattle. Of course, calling Arman has crossed my mind as well, but stowing her away in the Washington countryside will be a last resort, and my last, last resort will be coming to keep her safe myself and that will only happen if I am certain she is in imminent danger, hence the private investigator.
My temporary email inbox chimes indicating new mail and I open the correspondence, clicking on the attached file as well. A little spinning circle on my screen makes one revolution then a series of thumbnail sized digital images of Ena populate the file box on my screen. One image shows her clamping a bagel between her teeth as she holds an umbrella in one hand and digs for something in that damned bag of hers with the other hand. The next image is of he
r walking into a store. The next image is of her walking out with two bags in hand. I can see the set of her jaw and the intensity in her striking eyes. She is definitely aware of the hired help snapping pictures of her. I scroll through the images again, hating how my eyes linger on her picture, tracing every line of her face and body.
My phone buzzes and thank god for it. I would end up staring at these pictures all night if something didn’t force my attention away.
Murphy: Crew apartment ASAP.
Me: On my way.
A familiar urgency tugs at me deep in my stomach and I slam down another shot of whiskey before heading in the direction of trouble. I can feel it coming.
Chapter Forty-Five
Ena
I let out a stiff chuckle, interested in only demonstrating my waning patience but the bank representative on the line doesn’t get it. “Listen—what’d you say your name was again?”
“Carmen.”
“Carmen. I am calling, trying my best to explain to you that a very freakin’ large sum of money was wired into my account by mistake. I am asking you to take it back. Send it back. Do you understand what I am telling you? Is that really so hard?”
“Miss Devlin, perhaps my supervisor can be of better assistance,” she says curtly.
“Mmm. Perhaps,” I mutter with my eyes scanning the clock in my coworker’s car. This was the only place I could privately dispute the wire transfer without braving the rain coming down outside. I have wasted nearly my entire lunch break on the phone with the lovely Carmen, and my patience has finally run out. If I had known this was going to take so long I would have requested an extended lunch break and I could be doing this at home right now.
“Miss Devlin?”
“That’s me,” I say flatly.
“Good afternoon, Miss Devlin, my name is Lawrence Ellis. Carmen has communicated to me that you believe there has been a mistake with the wire on your account and would like to return it?” He does little to hide his incredulity at my claim.
“Yep. A two hundred and fifty grand mistake to be exact. How do I return it?”
“Miss. Are you certain?” Poor fellow sounds confused now.
“I think I would know if I had a spare quarter mill lying around,” I bark out in laughter that isn’t even close to sincere.
“Miss Devlin, you wired the money to yourself. From your Swiss account,” he says in that tone that people use with drunk folks, toddlers and the elderly. “Perhaps you forgot…” he leads employing the same kid-glove tone. I clench my teeth until they hurt.
“You know, I think I did. So sorry. Thanks for your time,” I say and end the call. I squeeze my phone hard in my hand, fighting the urge to throw it against the dashboard of Llewellyn’s Honda. I take three deep breaths and piece together what is going on. Of course Beast wouldn’t include his name. Of course the money is dirty. Of course the account is as fraudulent as the money that it holds. An image of my father kneeling at his feet with a stricken look in his eyes flashes through my mind and I clutch my chest, willing my heart to calm down.
Fine. Beast wants to send me blood money. He enjoys punishing and torturing me. That’s fine. I’ll just give it to a charity. I scan the clock again. Five minutes until I have to be back inside sitting at my desk. I jab my search into the browser of my phone and wait for results to come up. There are a multitude of charities that benefit the family of wounded and fallen law enforcement officers. I visit the top three I see and bookmark the website, intent on revisiting the pages when I get home later.
“Hack?”
“I don’t know whether I’m glad or worried to hear your voice,” he says detachedly with the distinct sound keys tapping in the background. “Who are we looking at?”
“Me. I need you to find out who sent a wire transfer of major cash to my real bank account using a fake Swiss account that says it belongs to me.” Hack whistles low.
“Hold on. Let me take notes,” he says and part of me thinks he is joking but the other part of me that doesn’t hear him typing anymore knows that he is serious.
“Okay, got it. What else?”
“Beast. I want to see his correspondence.”
“You really do have a death wish you know,” he mutters tiredly. “I’ll send what I can when I have it.”
“Thanks, Hack,” I say then hang up and hurry back to work with less than one minute to spare. Not that it matters. Llewellyn, the woman training me to take over the job she will be retiring from in a month, is hardly a stringent supervisor. She brings me fresh cookies every Monday morning and we split mega-margaritas every taco Tuesday at Aguirre’s Taco House on Magrath Avenue. It isn’t lost on me that my only friend is a sixty-five year old woman who can juggle an entire office while handing out made-from-scratch snickerdoodles. I don’t hold a candle to her.
Comparing myself to others is kind of like picking at a scab since I left Boston. It’s not a good idea and yet I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I’m hurt and bleeding again. My mind immediately goes to Kate and Carrick. They even sound like they belong together. My lips turn down in disgust as I log back into my office computer, getting back to work. My mind often wanders, debating on whether or not I should ask Lan to ask Murph about it in a vague way that wont reveal I am the one that would like to know. I have stopped short of making the request at least a dozen times. I don’t want to know. I shouldn’t care.
But you do.
I do care. Despite everything my brain knows, my heart refuses to abandon ship. He was cold and cruel, merciless as ever, true to his reputation. He confessed to ordering a hit on my father. Familiar disgust with myself creeps up my throat and I have to pause for a moment, rubbing the bridge of my nose. If I prayed regularly, I think right about now I would pray for God to cut me some slack and ease up a touch. I could use a break.
Chapter Forty-Six
Beast
I never had an issue flying alone until Ena had flown with me. Just like my life, my head, and my heart, once she’d set foot in the place, she left a distinct, permanent mark. I lean back against the leather seat, wishing my private jet were capable of teleportation. I’d be there already. Instead, I’m stuck sitting in my seat, thinking over everything that happened earlier this evening and wondering what awaits me when I touchdown hours from now.
After I received Murphy’s text earlier today, summoning me to the crew apartment, I rushed right over and burst through the door. I passed by half a dozen alert eyes and shut mouths. Never a good sign. The guys usually ran the place like a college frat house. There is always some game blaring or poker game getting rowdy. Right then, the guys that were there were silently watching me stalk through the place, headed toward the rear living space. I entered the open room to see Murphy and Orin standing in front of a man—a young guy no older than twenty I guessed.
“Or,” I greeted, joining them in front of the pale, sweating kid sitting in a chair in front of us. His dark brown eyes were wide and frightened.
“Carrick,” Or greeted.
“Who is our guest?”
“Tell him,” Murphy ordered calmly. The guy shook his mop of brown hair from his eyes and swallowed, making his Adams apple bob in his skinny neck.
“Petr. Petr Grekov.” The young man said shakily in a thick Russian accent.
“Petr, tell Beast, here what you told me,” Murphy ordered.
“I—I have cousin—he is made Bratva. He say that Irish High Knoll have woman hiding in Sea—Seattle,” he paused after stumbling over the word Seattle. “He say Bratva order hit—is fifty thousand dollar to kill her.”
“What woman are they speaking of?”
“You—your woman,” he hesitated nodding his chin at me. “Red hair. Eyes green. Beautiful.”
“And what were you doing looking around at Eden?” Murphy asked evenly.
“I—I—” he began.
“Fifty K isn’t near enough,” Murphy whispered, and the guy opened his mouth as though he was prepared to deny wha
t Murphy had pointed out, but before he could say another word, I lunged at him. Murphy caught me, barely, and hauled me back.
“You wanna carry out a fuckin’ hit, try me,” I spat, raw fury getting the best of me.
“I got it. Nothin' is gonna happen to her,” he growled urgently into my ear. I was vibrating with rage to the point of having tunnel vision. My heart pounded and worry for the only woman on this planet that I have ever loved—and had to hurt and give up—made my mind cloud. I hardly registered Orin withdrawing his gun.
“Anything else useful we should know?” he asked smoothly with a distant look in his eyes.
“I—I tell you everything. I say nothing to nobody,” the guy rambled desperately.
“Let this be a message for your Bratva comrades. We will spill every drop of Russian blood in the interest of keeping my daughter safe,” Or said, low and resolute.