I put my tea on the coffee table and pick up my phone. Anita checking to see that I made it. I reply that I have, then return my attention to Mom.
"I want to be here. You're the most important person in the world to me," I say.
Mom's eyes well, and she presses her lips together, trying not to cry. I reach out, and so does she, our hands intertwining. "Thank you," she says, her voice low.
I nod, my throat too tight to speak. I can't lose her. I just can't.
Through the rushing in my ears, I hear tires in the driveway. More than one set. Brakes screech.
I'm standing and moving to the big bay windows that look out onto the circular drive before the thought to do so fully forms. Oh shit.
"Dan, what's happening?" Mom's voice pitches up.
I'm staring out the window at the black and whites and the spinning colors in the front yard. They fill the driveway and spill out onto the suburban street.
I turn back into the room and grab my bag off the couch, slipping it over my shoulders and tightening down the straps. "Stall them," I say, bending to kiss the top of her head. The scent of her, the same floral perfume she's worn my entire life mixed with the stringent spike of antiseptic, fills my senses. This can't be the last time I see her… but it might be.
Mom looks up at me, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She's afraid for me. "Dan," she whispers. A fist tightens around my heart. I'm hurting her.
"I'll be okay, Mom. I'm sorry."
She doesn't believe me. I shouldn't have come.
As I head to the hallway, she stands in the living room, hands twisting. The knock comes at the front door. Gesturing with my chin, I encourage her to answer. She sniffs once and then hurries out of sight.
I pull up the hatch to the crawl space and leap down into the darkness and musk. I lower the door.
"My son?" Mom asks, her tone confused and protective. Mom, sweet Mom.
In the pitch blackness of the crawl space, I fish my phone from my pocket and turn on the flashlight. The beam illuminates the narrow dirt-lined space. I lower to my hands and knees, fitting the pop socket between my teeth so that I can use the light and my hands at the same time.
The moist earth soaks through my jeans as I crawl to the far back corner. Pulling away the thick tangle of sticky spiderwebs exposes the wooden doorway. My escape hatch, prepared back in my youthful hacker days.
The FBI never came for me then, but even a decade and a half ago I knew one day they'd get this close. I'm one of the best, but we all have weaknesses. And the law doesn't give up. That's one of the things I admire about it.
Heavy-booted footfalls sound above as I yank open the low-framed door. Scurrying sounds echo in the dark. I raise the flashlight. A rat disappears around the bend. I lick my lips, tasting the dank air.
Fingers crossed that the tunnel hasn't collapsed in the years since I dug it.
Plant roots dangle from the ceiling, brushing against the back of my neck and sending shivers down my spine. The flashlight cuts through the darkness, revealing the narrow passageway in stark light, driving creatures slithering and scurrying.
I take shallow breaths. My pack scrapes along the roof, raining dirt onto my back and thickening the air. The passage is barely wide enough for my shoulders. I didn't count on becoming so much bigger.
Reaching the end of the tunnel, I push at the hatch above. It barely budges. It should let out into the furthest reaches of my mother's backyard. She hasn't sold any of her land. That I would have caught. How did I miss her cancer? Don't think about that now.
I reposition myself to get better leverage on the hatch and push up with my shoulder, using my legs. It shifts more, giving way and letting sunlight eke into the space. It's probably just covered in fifteen years’ worth of dirt and leaf fall. I should get a landscaper out here to do some work. Assuming I'm not in jail and mom is alive. Stop thinking!
The hatch flops open, and I stand up into the sunlight, taking a big lungful of sweet, fresh air. Looking back at the house, I see uniformed officers circling the place. I hunch low, trying to hide in the trees. Someone yells from inside the house, drawing the circling cops’ attention.
Another yell echoes down the passageway. They found it. Time to go.
My bag strapped close to my body, I move through the woods, vines catching at me and springing back. I spent much of my early childhood playing in this copse of trees at the back of the property. A stream runs through it in spring and fall, but in the cold hush of winter and the dry spells of summer, the land is hard packed.
The leaves are just starting to turn now, and there are thick pines to help hide me, but I'm dressed in jeans and a blue long-sleeve shirt—not exactly camouflage.
I reach the end of the property and discover that Billy Brush's backyard is fenced now. Dammit. I run along the high wire fence built to keep deer out, following it toward the road. I can circle around to Milton Field's yard. There is yelling in the woods behind me. They've followed the tunnel and found my exit. I glance back but don't see any uniforms yet.
A dog barks. Fantastic.
I run faster, my breath still even. The few weeks I took off from physical activity have not left me totally useless, that's good. A hole in the fence up ahead sends a shot of adrenaline through me. As I duck down to squeeze through, the broken wire catches on my shirt, tearing it. Crap. I pause to unhook the jagged metal from the material and see the first hint of movement in the trees behind me.
Billy's yard—or at least it used to be Billy's yard, it's now owned by a new family—slopes down to my right toward the main road. The ranch house is to my left, its driveway connecting to the cul-de-sac beyond it. If I race straight across their 2.4-acre lot, I can cross into a larger wilderness area that has trails running through it and a play structure.
There is yelling behind me again, and I turn back to see movement on the other side of the fence. The dogs will track me no matter which way I go.
A white Subaru is parked in front of Billy's former house. I bet the keys are in it...
I sprint toward the Subaru. "Stop!" a voice yells behind me.
Crap. It will have to be plan B. I stop, putting my hands in the air and dropping to my knees. I am not a threat.
Footsteps run up behind me. A hard kick to my back flattens me to the ground. I curl into a ball as another kick hits my legs. "You dumbass!" one of the cops yells.
A blow to my lower back, below my backpack, arches me, and a different foot thunks into my newly exposed stomach. Vomit surges out of me, splattering the boots in front of me.
"Motherfucker!"
A blow to the base of my skull explodes dark spots across my vision. Screaming starts up—it's not me. "What are you doing?" It's the new owner of the house.
I blink up to see four cops around me now, the light through the trees dappling their uniforms. One of them raises his foot, and I shield my face again, but he smashes down on my cheekbone. Lights explode behind my closed lids.
This is not going well at all...
Chapter Nine
Lenox
The sun sets and darkness folds around the buildings. Our van idles outside the apartment building. Ian, Connor, Liam, and Petra are still in the living room.
Ramona turns in her seat, fidgeting, her eyes darting to the tablet I'm holding with the surveillance feed and then to the sidewalk where Hans and Sophia pretend to be lovers on an evening stroll. The pair stop in front of the apartment building doorway to whisper and touch.
Hans speaks over the radio, his accented voice coming right into my ear. "We saw nothing to indicate they have additional measures in place. Lenox, you should go now."
"Roger," I say.
Ramona nods, her body vibrating with leashed power.
I move across the street, the tablet tucked inside my overcoat, rubbing against the bulletproof vest. My earbud still hears the feed from the living room. The moon glows white and full, casting a pale blue over the cement and reflecting off the parked cars.
I glance up at it, sensing a largeness that is beyond myself. My mother flashes across my memory. The warmth of her eyes and her cool hands on my forehead. It's been a lifetime since I lost her, since she was taken from me. A lifetime, and yet the pain can be as fresh and dangerous as the new moon.
Men like Ian McCain and his brothers, men like Yusuf, they breed a belief in the right of the powerful to exploit the weak that is deadly. It killed my mother. It sent Ramona here to be by my side. It drives us all in its own way.
All my adult life I've sought to avoid it. By only selling men, I could tell myself that I was not the problem. By joining Joyful Justice, I could tell myself that I was doing everything I could to stop it. By standing next to Petra in our new venture, I could tell myself that I was doing everything in my power.
And now, as I step across the street and approach the door, as I prepare to kill these men and "rescue" Petra, I must be honest with myself. This is not what my mother would want for me—spending a lifetime entrenched in an un-winnable war. No amount of revenge or action will bring her back. I must release the anger and pain around her death and choose my path with clear focus.
But first I must learn if Petra has betrayed me. Like a blindfolded man in a field full of swords, I will have to use my instincts to discover the truth. Is Petra my ally or my enemy? My lover or my betrayer?
The glow of Han's phone illuminates Sophia’s face as she looks at me. The blue cast of the phone similar to that of the moon, but brighter and harsher. She looks like stone, a beautiful illuminated sculpture. A deadly design.
I open the apartment building door. Hans and Sophia move in with me. Ramona will remain outside to watch our backs. I've spent the day listening to Ian and his henchmen—who can only be described as mentally challenged—and from what I gathered, they do not have backup. They believe Petra is on their side. They can't see past the mask. Can I?
The door bursts open, the wood splintering and hinges cracking. Hans stays low as he rolls a canister of pepper spray into the room. It hisses and makes a tinkling sound against the hard wood.
Hans flattens against the wall. His silver hair pokes out from between the bands holding his gas mask in place.
Coughing echoes inside.
I watch the tablet in my hand through my own mask. Petra has dropped to the floor, flattening herself in front of the couch, hands on the back of her head—just like a good captive should. The bloom of acrid smoke thickens. Ian, Conner, and Liam pull their weapons, backing away from the spinning, hissing can of gas.
Ian leads them behind the counter in the kitchen, and they duck down, out of line of sight from the camera and the front door. "Behind the kitchen counter," I say quietly into our comms.
Sophia and Hans go first, moving in unison, like ballroom dancers performing a standard. The gas flows and ebbs with us, circling our bodies and gathering at our feet. Petra coughs behind the couch, out of sight.
The shorter end of the L-shaped kitchen counter is right in front of us, the men behind it protected—though their location made obvious by their wracking coughs. The back of the couch faces the longer end of the counter, and the now empty stools. My gaze darts to the window the couch faces, where the camera is hidden. I can’t make out where it is…and I don’t think it’s just because of the smoke.
Ian pops up, red eyed and wild. His gun explodes in the small space, the sound ricocheting as fiercely as his bullet. It thunks into my chest, blowing me back a step. Sophia's silenced weapon whispers through the smoke, exploding into Ian's brain and spattering it across the white counters behind him.
His body lurches to the side, his weapon discharging again. The wayward bullet strikes the window—creating a spiderweb of cracks joined at a central hole that sucks the pepper spray out into the night.
My breath echoes in my mask, the pain in my chest radiating but dull.
A hand comes up from behind the kitchen counter. "I give up," a voice chokes out. "Please don't kill me."
"Throw your weapons away," Hans orders them. Two guns skitter out from behind the counter, followed by a switchblade and a smaller pistol.
"Stand up slowly," Hans commands. "Hands on your heads."
The two goons’ fingertips appear, followed by hands, wrists, and elbows, then tear-streaked faces and broad shoulders. Finally, round bellies are exposed. "What do you want to do with them?" Hans asks me.
I don't have an easy answer.
We have no way to hold them. But we can't release them. Clearly they want to live and are no longer bound by loyalty to Ian, but once our guns are down, their fear will dissipate. "Take them down to the van," I say. "I will meet you at location D."
Hans gestures with his gun for the men to come out from behind the counter. They keep their hands up as they move around. Sophia covers them, and the four move out of the apartment.
I need to speak with Petra alone.
My eyes flick to the couch she still lies behind, her coughing easing as the smoke clears out the ruined window.
"Stand up," I say, my voice steady.
She rises slowly, and I walk toward her, so now just the couch separates us. "You betrayed me," I say behind my mask.
Her eyes are red and swollen. She takes in a deep breath, then coughs it out. "No." Her voice is hoarse. "I did what I had to do to save you after that bonehead move with Anna." She shakes her head. "It was the perfect opportunity to get Ian out of hiding. And now we are free to take on Yusuf. We will take the whole city."
Her eyes burn with ambitions beyond mine. "Ian needed to be dealt with." She waves at his body. "He was an idiot, but his anger made him erratic and difficult to pinpoint. Now he is out of the way. We no longer need to worry about him."
"Does your ego know no bounds? You think I will just trust you. Just—"
"Lenox!" She coughs, her thin body hunching into itself.
A pang of regret pulses through me. I should get her out of here. Get her to cleaner air. I rip off my own mask, some chivalry inside me refusing to retain my advantage, instead following the trap of honor to a burning throat and stinging eyes.
"Do not play the fool," Petra says. "Do not pretend you do not know how I feel for you!" She stamps her foot, impetuous and powerful—how does she pull it off?
I step closer to her, my movement another subconscious footfall. I want to grab her, but stop myself. My throat burns from the remaining gas still in the air.
She tilts her chin to look up at me. I am bigger and stronger. I could hurl her across the room. I could hurt her. I fist my hands. "We are not in love."
"Wrong." Her eyes narrow. "You are not in love, Lenox, or so you think. But I’m..." Her voice catches, and she blinks, the fire in her eyes shifting from a flame to a burning coal. Her voice quiets, the passion still there but also a new… vulnerability. I open my mouth to say something, anything, to stop the words I expect to leave her mouth. She speaks first. "I am in love with you."
I shake my head and take a step back. I don't want to hear it. Can't hear it. Refuse to believe it. She is a liar. "This is not what people in love do."
"We are not people, Lenox. I am me, and you are you. We are not to be understood by others. No one can see me like you."
"I can't see you." I sweep an arm out, indicating the blood-spattered kitchen, the stinging air, the trap she laid. "I did not see this coming."
"You saw enough to know to come for me."
"I don't want Yusuf’s power. I don’t want to run this city’s underworld." I stop short from saying I don't want her. It's a lie. A lie I can't even tell myself, let alone her. Why do I still want her? She is manipulative, infuriating, and dangerous.
"What about me? Do you want me?" Petra asks, that note of vulnerability sneaking back into her voice.
"I don't know." Why can't I just say no? She's a drug, a powerful hallucinogen. I need to stop this madness, break free from her control. But…
"You're lying."
"I don’t want to take over Yusuf’s r
ole," I say again, my throat tight and voice harsh. "We need to stick to what we can control. This is not our place. We cannot change everything here.”
"We can do anything we want."
A voice inside me cheers at her bravado, at her certainty. But a louder, saner sense is telling me to run from her. To leave this city, leave this woman, and never come back.
"We can change the world." Petra starts to round the couch. "But now we must go. Before the police arrive. Before we have to answer too many questions. Come." She reaches my side and holds out her hand. "Let's go."
I stare down at her outstretched fingers, at the fine lines radiating across her palm. I meet Petra's gaze again, still red-rimmed from the pepper spray. The cracked glass of the window behind her a fitting background to this spider of a woman.
My heart thumps, and blood rushes in my veins. My nervous system urges me forward. She's right. We must go. I put my hand in hers. She closes her fingers over mine, and I tug, yanking her off balance. She hits my chest, melting against me, looking up, her eyes pools of watery green mystery.
"I can't trust you," I say, but the words sound false. My hands running up her back, pulling her closer, defy me. I close my burning eyes and inhale her scent—coughing on the gas still floating in the air.
"You don't have to trust me. You know me." Petra pulls back to look up into my face. Her smile is playful, but the tremor in her voice begs me to agree.
I crush my lips against hers, needing the contact, the sweet breath of her, the fire that she ignites in me, the bravery she exhibits every damn second of her godforsaken existence. When I pull back, her gaze is glassy, her smile lazy... Yes, I control you too.
We turn as one and leave the apartment, the crunch of broken wood from the ruined doorway our swan song.
Chapter Ten
Dan
My eye is swollen shut, the side of my head an aching mess of pain. My wrists are cuffed to a metal loop on the table, so that I have to sit forward in the plastic chair.
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