by S. Massery
“Yes,” she says.
“Why were you really in the hospital?”
She bites her lip. “Don’t get mad. It’s cancer.”
I try to keep breathing. It’s one thing to think it on a whim. It’s another for her to confirm it. “How bad is it?”
“It’s fine.” Some color returns to her cheeks. “I didn’t ask for you to diagnose me. Don’t worry about it. Let’s worry about you, shall we?”
“If you think for one second that I’m not going to be watching you for signs that it’s getting worse, you’re so fucking wrong.” It takes me a minute to place this emotion: it’s worry, wrapped in anxiety, held together by sleep deprivation. Great combination.
She squints at me, then turns and starts back down the hill. I stare after her, at a loss.
The girl I remember was full of sass, but she was a rule follower. Now she’s all fire as she walks away from me, and I can’t help but find that more appealing.
What choice do I have now? I follow her.
Last night was hell. I almost couldn’t get my head in the game. More than once, I was nearly ambushed because I couldn’t concentrate.
I need to warn Hadley that I captured one of them. I ran into him—almost literally—and our fight turned into a damn wrestling match. I knocked him out and dragged him into the house with me and kept him tied up. He didn’t say a word to me, but he probably thought there was a chance of them killing me. We were surrounded for half the night anyway.
Zach came and got me, and he stayed behind to extract him. I didn’t want Hadley to see us with our captive, and I was more than eager to get out of that house. The spray of bullets erupted from my left, toward the hill, and my heart stopped. I hadn’t moved that fast all night, lifting my gun and sighting the man—who was crouched by a tree, his eyes on where Dalton and Hadley were. Two bullets found his chest, and he toppled over.
I open and close my mouth, wondering how the hell I’m going to explain myself to her. Hey, we have a hostage. Yeah, I know you just witnessed us all kill some people. Sorry about that. In the end, I decide to keep my mouth shut. The guilt is compounding.
She stumbles, catching herself on a tree.
I’m by her side in a second, taking her elbow. “Let me help you.”
She slowly nods. I scoop her up again, ignoring her slight protest, and continue down the trail.
“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” I say. “I didn’t know—” I exhale. “I didn’t think there was a connection. And then you… He never mentioned the cancer.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “You talked to Judge before this week?”
I keep my sights on the horizon. “Yeah, well, he was family.”
“We were family, too,” she mutters.
“It was different, Hadley,” I murmur. It was hard staying away from her, but I thought I was protecting her. Just like I thought I was protecting her by bringing her here. Wrong on two counts. I couldn’t infect her with the darkness that infected me while I was with Scorpion Industries.
“They said you saw me in the city?” she asks.
The hurt is undeniable, and I tense my grip. I did see her once, but I couldn’t make myself approach her. And I’m a coward for not admitting it.
“Dalton has a big fucking mouth,” I grumble.
It gets a small laugh out of her, and my chest tightens.
“Actually, it was Zach,” she says, a smile spreading.
“Damn,” I say, smiling back at her. I catch a glimpse of their car through the trees and set her back on her feet. “Okay to go from here?”
She looks toward the Jeep for a moment, stock-still, before she nods. “Can we go to Paris?”
I stop her just out of view. “Yes. Of course.”
“We should probably talk about this.”
My smile drops. “We should.” take a deep breath. “Last night was hellish. I’m so sorry you had to spend it in a panic room. I just— I wanted you to be safe. If I knew that the people who attacked Judge—who took you hostage—knew we were traveling to Amsterdam—” I can’t catch my breath.
What’s wrong with me?
The past twelve hours have been nothing but adrenaline and worry. There were so many things I could’ve done differently, but none of the scenarios had a guaranteed successful outcome. In this case, hindsight was murky at best.
She lays her hand on my chest. “Hey. It’s okay. I mean, I don’t really get it. I don’t want to make assumptions, and maybe I’m better off not knowing the gritty details of your life, you know? I don’t really want to know why you didn’t come back for five years.”
That stings.
“We’re not off to a great start,” I say.
“There’s still the rest of our story,” she says, tapping her finger over my heart.
My muscles relax in millimeters. “You’re a saint. And…”
She lifts her eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“I managed to catch one of them,” I say before I can admit something foolish. Like that I’m sorry for ever leaving her behind, or that I missed her every day, or that I was always asking Judge for updates about her. “Zach has him with Dalton. We’re going to see what we can find out.”
She nods, her gaze going to our feet. “Oh.”
“You can wait in the car,” I say, ducking my head to meet her eyes. “This is one of the things we have to do to get some answers. It won’t be pretty. But it’s about time we get our heads back in the game.”
Honestly, I’m ready for her to walk away. I wouldn’t blame her if she wants to fly back home and never speak to me again. I’d have to put protection on her, but she wouldn’t be trapped here.
“I’m staying,” she says.
9
HADLEY
If I had a bucket list, things that would NOT be on it would include:
Abduction.
Car chase.
Cancer.
Being locked in a panic room.
Interrogating a hostage.
Sometime during the night, or during the hike with Zach and Dalton, or the aftermath—getting carried home by Griffin—a miniscule part of me changed its mind about death. I was so worried about cancer. After this most recent hospital stay, the doctors gave me a death sentence. Two weeks until I was restricted to a bed, only a week or two after that until my body gives out. That’s the kind of clock I’m facing.
Because I thought it had been manageable. I thought the flu-like symptoms were just the flu and the nosebleeds were just because the air was dry this winter.
Wrong.
And there’s still so much to do.
They have a hostage. It’s a little fact that Griffin forgot to mention up until right now, but on some level, I get it. I wouldn’t want to freak me out either. He gestures for me to get in the Jeep, but I shake my head. He gives me a long look, then nods and moves to stand by Dalton and Zach. The guy is up against the car with his back to me. I’m tempted to inch around, just so I can see his face.
Their questions start off innocent: What’s your name? Where are you from? Nothing. A whimper follows the name questions when they aren’t answered, and then a grunt.
I close my eyes and start to let go of my wants. Death takes you fast or slow, and there’s no getting out of his grip once he’s decided on you.
I knew Griffin was my guardian angel—protecting me against bullies and nightmares—but I had no idea what that might lead to up until this trip. Has he always been this way, or did something in the last five years change him?
“Il Fantasma,” the guy blurts out. His voice is shrill.
The muscle in Griffin’s jaw jumps, but he doesn’t say anything.
Zach growls. The noise surprises me, because he’s been nothing but nice to me. And up until now, he’s been silent around the hostage.
“Please,” the guy says.
His hands are bound behind his back, and he struggles to get his feet under him. Dalton pushes him over with his foot, and he
hits the ground again. He’s bleeding from his lip, his teeth stained red. Without the tactical weapons, the helmet and vest, he seems like a regular man begging for his life.
I circle around, mesmerized by the violence.
“Ah, you brought the girl.” The man laughs when he sees me.
Now that he’s speaking full sentences, I can pick out a British accent.
“Good, good. They wanted her, you know. You were the prize, but she was the reward.”
Griffin shakes his head. “Why would they want her?”
“Look at her, eh? Skin and bones. She’s your weak spot, Angel.”
I cock my head.
“Ah, you haven’t told her,” he says.
“Shut up,” Griffin snaps.
“The Angel of Death, girl. You remember that when you’re closing your eyes next to him at night. That’s who’s warming your bed.”
He jerks his head at Griffin, and Dalton lunges forward. He pushes the guy’s face into the ground, then holds him there with his foot on his neck.
I close my eyes.
“Your time is running out,” Dalton warns the man. “Anything else you’d like to add? Maybe to convince us that you should have your freedom?”
He just shakes his head and slowly sits back up when Dalton releases him. “I’m a dead man whether you do it now or they do it later. I was just doing my job. My family will be safe.”
“Probably not anymore,” I murmur, and the guy’s eyes snap to me again. “If they find out you ratted your boss out…”
Dalton nods. “Excellent point, Hadley. Zach, cut him free.”
“What?” The guy fights against Zach, who leans down with a knife to cut the ropes away from his legs and arms. “Seriously? They’ll kill me.”
Dalton smiles. “A lot less humanely,” he agrees. “What you do with your freedom is up to you.”
The man stands. He edges in my direction, but Griffin is suddenly in front of me. The guy backs away and takes off, across the field and toward the far tree line. I stare at Griffin’s back when he raises his gun and fires a single shot. The sound of it moves through me, and I don’t have to see to know the man is down.
I stumble backward. “You weren’t going to let him go,” I accuse him.
I switch my gaze from Zach to Dalton and back to Griffin, but only Zach seems a touch guilty. Griffin’s lips press together, and I instantly recognize the determined expression he wore as a teenager.
“He gave you what you wanted—”
“Il Fantasma has been dead for at least three years,” Griffin says. To me, he adds, “It means The Ghost. Later in our career, we knew him as Santos. Dalton saw him die. To hear his name come out of that man’s mouth… Impossible.”
“How’d he know his name, then?” I challenge. Tears fill my eyes as I stare at the boy I used to know. “You just shot him in the back—”
“Whoever he works for would’ve done worse,” Dalton says, yanking open the trunk. “You pointed that out. You realized that before he did. If you’re working for a bad guy, they don’t like it when you’re captured. It gives you the opportunity to be a rat.”
“Even if you aren’t,” I finish. “But—”
Griffin’s hands glide up and down my arms. “I warned you, Hadley. Why didn’t you just get in the car?”
I slap his hands away. “I’m not the stay-in-the-car type, Griffin.” You should know this.
Zach chuckles. “Well, this has been a fun. I’m starving.”
That breaks the ice, and Griffin and I release weak smiles.
“There’s a cute diner not too far from here,” Dalton says. “Wyatt took me once.”
They’re quiet again.
“I saw you in New York City when I was visiting Wyatt’s grave,” Griffin says in a low voice as Zach and Dalton head for the front of the Jeep. “He just died a few years ago, and it still doesn’t feel real.”
I reach out and catch his hand. “I’m sorry. I wish you would’ve said something, but I understand why you didn’t.”
He nods, bringing my hand to his lips. His touch is feather-light against my skin, sending shivers down my spine.
“Come on,” Dalton calls.
I pull my hand from Griffin’s and give him a small smile. There will be time to dissect this later. Or… maybe not.
Maybe it’s better to just ride this out, then disappear.
After a satisfying lunch, during which my stomach only threatens to erupt once, we head back to Griffin’s cabin. They keep calling it Wyatt’s, which makes me think Griffin hasn’t changed it too much since he inherited it.
I follow them back into the basement and sit on the stairs as they pat down the three men who had been trying to break into the panic room.
Griffin steps into the room, and he comes right back out. “Hadley Quinn,” he says, his voice very nearly deadly. “What happened in there?”
I clear my throat. “I, ah… Nosebleed?”
Something tells me that excuse isn’t going to fly.
“I passed out,” I mumble under his glare.
“Fuck,” he says, turning and slamming his fist into the wall.
“How very Jackson-esque of you,” Dalton comments.
“How long?” Griffin asks me. He comes closer, kneeling two steps below me, and touches the blood spot on my collar again. “How long were you unconscious on the floor?”
I shift on the step. “Maybe… ten hours? To be fair, it was probably a combination of unconsciousness and sleep.” Like that makes it better.
He closes his eyes and leans forward, resting his forehead against my thigh. “How am I supposed to keep you safe, Hadley?”
I slide my fingers through his hair. I’ve been wanting to do that since he buckled my seat belt on the plane, even though that feels like a lifetime ago.
“You can’t,” I whisper as he picks his head back up. It hurts to admit that, and yet, it’s the truth. I am a time bomb. My blood is poison, and soon, it’s going to kill me. “It’s not curable, Griffin. I’m going to die.”
“You are not,” he promises, his eyes darkening. “I will not let you.”
I shake my head and look away. I will not be locked in a hospital, or hooked up to ventilators, or pumped full of morphine until my body can’t take it anymore.
Conversation over.
“Well, nothing like that for a mood killer,” Zach comments. “If I can just ask you to hop off the stairs, Hadley, we’d like to get these smelly fuckers out of here.”
I widen my eyes, and Griffin follows me up the stairs, onto the first floor.
“Seriously,” I start, “where are you guys putting all of the bodies?”
He grimaces. “I’d imagine the authorities will be finding the ones at the other cabin sometime soon, so they’ll take these guys down there. It’s a messy job, and one I fucking hate.”
“You’re not going with them?”
“And leave you alone again? No.”
I nod, ignoring the subtext—that he’s not going to leave me alone because of the cancer. Forget the men trying to capture me and kill him. “So… I guess Paris is off the table?”
He sighs. “I need to call Mason. He owns a cybersecurity firm in Vegas, and his partner is a vice detective. I’m thinking if anyone can figure out the truth, it’s them.”
I nod slowly, but I’m still confused. “He’ll be able to figure out why a dead guy is after you?”
He shrugs. “Who knows? Somehow, someone got my real name, then got to Judge, and now they’re onto you. They’re looking for my weak spots.”
“What about your friends?” I ask. “Aren’t they weak spots?”
He smiles. “Not by a long shot. They’re great to have on your side.”
“And Dalton said your reaction, to, ah,” I cough over the word blood, “was Jackson-esque? He’s another guy on the team?”
Griffin grins. “Yeah, Jackson. He’s recently engaged. We helped him out of a mess a few months ago with his girl. He’s
a fighter with a stupid temper.”
“Oh.”
“He was the first one to break through our rule of no girls.” He laughs. “But then again, he’s always been on the outside. He put a lot of the blame on himself.”
“Blame?”
Griffin shrugs. “About what we were doing. Some of us carry it better than others.”
I ignore that and ask, “Are we staying here tonight?”
He shakes his head. “No, there’s not enough security, and the location is probably compromised. We’re going to repair what we can and then head to my apartment downtown. There’s only one bedroom there, though.” His lips quirk. “I can take the couch if you’re opposed to sharing...”
My cheeks heat up. “That’s one way to proposition a girl,” I mutter.
“How else am I supposed to make sure the cancer isn’t getting out of control? You didn’t even mention what kind it is.”
“Leukemia,” I murmur. “Chronic something or other, but the doctor said I let my symptoms get out of control. It felt like I had the flu forever. Can we... not talk about this right now?”
I wince at the look on his face.
“I thought you’d hate me for what I put you through,” he says instead. “But you’re still here.”
I shake my head. “I thought you’d hate me for what I withheld from you.” And I’m still withholding. “The, well, you know.”
He moves to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair and sinking into it. “The apartment is under a different name. Downtown. Do you have any interest in the museums?”
“I would like to sightsee while we’re here,” I say, sitting across from him.
“Good. Tomorrow, we’re going to meet Mason’s friend. He’ll make us new passports to get across the borders… and eventually get you home.” He stretches his hand across the table.
I put my hand in his, feeling like a teenager.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m not quite ready to play the victim. I’m okay for someone who’s had a hell of a few days.”
He raises an eyebrow at me, reaching up and twisting my blonde hair between his fingers. “It’s barely been thirty-six hours. You’ve survived a lot.”
