by S. Massery
“Da?” His accent is thick.
That alone shocks me, because Shade sounds American to my ears.
“Elijah, my boy,” Shade says. He steps forward and wraps his arms around his son.
It feels awkward to witness this reunion. I’m suddenly filled with questions. How long has it been since he saw his son? Do they not get along? Why is Shade not allowed in Brussels?
Griffin takes my hand and brings it up to his lips. I feel his smile first, then the press of a kiss against my knuckles. My cheeks warm.
“How are you?” Shade asks. He still has ahold of his son’s shoulders, like he’s afraid Elijah will back inside the apartment and lock us out.
“I’m good. Why—”
“We’re just hoping to crash here until morning,” Dalton cuts in. He gives his best smile to Elijah. “We don’t take up much space.”
Elijah slowly nods, looking around our motley group. “Just the night?”
“We’ll be gone first thing in the morning,” Dalton promises.
I exhale slowly when Elijah allows us inside. It’s a relatively small apartment, each room separate. First the bedroom—I catch the shape of a figure stretched out on the bed, half-raised on an elbow—and then the living room, and the kitchen beyond it. The door to the bathroom is in the corner.
The dining table against the window in the living room is crowded with mugs and papers, stacks of textbooks, pens. Shade looks around, shoulders hunched, and then turns back to his son.
“You’ve made a home for yourself,” he finally says. “I’m proud of you.”
Elijah’s shoulders hike up. “It’s late. I’m not sure where to put all of you—”
“We’ll be okay,” Griffin says. “If you have a spare blanket or two, that would be great.”
He disappears into the bedroom and comes back with a stack of blankets, three pillows balanced on top of it. The guys take everything, and Elijah leaves us alone. The bedroom door closes quietly, but there’s a firmness to it.
I wonder if he’s locked it behind him.
“You can have the couch, Hadley,” Griffin says.
I look at it, then back at him. “We can share,” I suggest, eliciting a smile from his lips.
We all settle. Shade and Dalton lie on the rug. Griffin puts a blanket over us, and I rest my head in the hollow of his shoulder. Who needs pillows?
The lamp goes off, although light still streams in from outside.
My eyes close, and my body relaxes.
I drift to sleep.
And all at once, everyone is moving.
I could’ve been asleep for a minute or an hour, but suddenly I’m in Griffin’s arms, someone is shoving my shoes on my feet, and we’re rushing the door. The only thing that keeps me from panicking is Griffin’s voice in my ear, whispering, “You’re okay, hold on, shh,” over and over. Nonsense, comforting words.
I wrap my arm around his neck and tuck my face into his chest. As much as I try to pull myself from sleep, tendrils of it keep me under. We climb the stairs, and our bodies jostle.
“Up?” I murmur.
“Shh,” Griffin answers.
And then the sound of more boots on the stairs hits my ears. They pound on a door and announce themselves as the police just as we push through the door that leads to the roof. The fresh air catches pieces of my hair.
I crack my eyes open and glance at Dalton and Shade. Dalton has ahold of his arm and only drops it once Shade jerks away from him. Shade’s chest heaves.
“Hard part isn’t over,” Dalton says. He nods toward the next building over.
Shade’s mouth drops open. “That’s where we’re going?”
“What happened?” I ask.
Griffin carries me like I weigh nothing. “Shade’s son called the police.”
Shade harrumphs. “I’m sure it wasn’t—”
Dalton levels him a look, and Shade closes his mouth with a snap. He grabs the older man and steers him to the edge of the building. They must be back-to-back, because the distance between them is only about six or seven feet.
Griffin sets me down. “I need you to climb on my back.”
I freeze. “You’re kidding.”
“We’re jumping.” Dalton wiggles his eyebrows.
His eyes are alight with a fire I haven’t seen before, and his grin is wicked. It matches Griffin’s.
“I’ll go first.” He doesn’t hesitate. He just backs up, takes a running start, and launches over the side. He’s airborne for a few long seconds before his feet hit the concrete on the other side. He turns back to us and grins. “Easy.”
Shade shakes his head, but Griffin prods him between the shoulder blades.
“Go,” he says, and Shade goes.
He runs and jumps, and his body hits the edge of the roof. Dalton lunges forward and grabs him, hauling him up, and Shade lies immobile for a second. When he gets up, he swears.
My heart is pounding out of my chest. He almost just fell to his death.
“On my back now, Hadley,” Griffin says, taking a knee.
Once I’m on, he stands and adjusts me. Moves my legs so they aren’t in the way of his, moves my hands so I’m not strangling him. This closeness is new, and I don’t entirely hate it. I’m pressed against him, and wicked thoughts run through my head.
But then the thoughts aren’t the only thing running.
We’re in the air, weightless for a few terrifying seconds, and then Griffin’s feet slam onto the other side of the gap. He keeps running, straight for the stairwell. Dalton and Shade follow. He puts me on my feet, takes my hand, and draws his gun with his other.
“What’s that for?” I whisper. “Are you going to—?”
He gives me a look, and I stop asking questions. We move down the hallway in silence, down two floors of stairs, and out onto the street. It’s pitch-black outside the glow of each lamp, but they’re few and far between.
There are no police on this street.
“There’s Elijah’s car,” Shade says. He holds out the keys. “Shall I?”
Dalton chuckles. “Beats walking.”
And off we go. Again.
16
GRIFFIN
Shade surprises me and Hadley with new passports. This time, we’re Italian.
“I can’t even pronounce the city I was born in,” Hadley whispers.
We are in the back of Elijah’s car, hunched low, as Shade drives us toward Paris. The drive is about three and a half hours, but only an hour until we hit the border.
“No worries, girl,” Shade says. “There is no check at the border to France. Don’t you have a grasp of the Italian language?”
She stiffens, and I glance between her and Shade.
“How do you know that?” I growl.
“Griffin, well,” he says, sniffing. “I had to do some research.”
Dalton stills. Everyone in the car goes quiet.
“Devos,” he says from in front of me, “what did you do?”
“Paradox is a friend.” His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, and the car accelerates down the road. “But he’s just someone I know from afar. To welcome a friend of his into my home? To trust? Not an easy thing.”
“What kind of research did you do, Devos?” I’m trying not to let anger get the better of me. The stiller Dalton is, the more worried I become.
I reach over to Hadley and make sure her seat belt is on while I silently unclip mine.
“I asked around,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “My sons—”
“We trusted you,” Dalton cuts in. “And you asked around on us? On Griffin?”
“I just—”
“Pull over,” he orders.
Devos swerves the car toward a ditch, and Hadley lets out a squeak of surprise. Dalton lunges for the wheel.
I grab Devos under his arms, pulling him nearly all the way out of his seat. He fights me, body jerking, but slides into the backseat between Hadley and me.
It all happens in
a split second. Dalton recovers the car and maneuvers into the driver’s seat. I hold a small knife to Devos’ throat. As soon as he feels the cut of it, he freezes.
“Hadley, get in the front seat.”
She unbuckles and scrambles into the front, and I shove Devos away from me, against the window.
“Why?” I ask him.
His eyes are wide, and he reeks of fear. It’s a familiar smell, like coming home after a long vacation. Instantly recognizable and disconcertingly comforting. Darkness falls over me. The nerves fall away.
“I already told you why—”
“Who, then? Who did you ask?” That from Dalton, casting a glance over his shoulder at me. He sees the expression on my face and nods, jerking his attention back toward the road.
I lean forward. “You tell me, you live. Easy.”
“Threaten Reece,” Hadley says.
Shock—and, disturbingly, pride—radiates through my chest.
Devos swears under his breath. “You little—”
The tip of my knife digs into his throat. “Careful,” I say. “My trust in you was left back in Amsterdam.”
“Dark web shit,” Devos says. His voice is high with panic. “I just threw your name out there, asking for intel—”
“So anyone who was watching for Griffin would’ve seen that?” Dalton asks. “What can of worms did you open?”
He swallows, and my knife tip cuts into his skin at the movement. “I fucked up,” he blurts out. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I look over at Hadley and wonder how much of the trauma inflicted on her was because of him. That fact alone boils my blood. He didn’t try to kill me—in fact, it seems a little too innocent of him. That’s the problem: maybe he didn’t know what kind of shitstorm he was going to attract.
“Wait,” Hadley says.
I think she’s going to ask me not to kill him.
“Mason is a hacker, isn’t he? So… why don’t we have Shade inquire about you again and see who bites? Can’t Mason back-trace an IP address or something?”
Dalton chuckles. “She’s crafty, Griff. I like her.”
“I like her, too,” I murmur. I think of what can go wrong, but the answer is too broad. Everything and anything can go wrong. “Okay,” I finally say, “we’ll get set up in Paris. Mason can do it from where he is. And if you make one fucking wrong move…” I glare at Devos, and it’s enough that he wilts in his seat.
We ride in silence for almost an hour before Hadley turns up the radio. She balls up a sweatshirt and cushions her head against the window, and I really wish it was me she was leaning on.
I keep eyeing Shade, wondering if it would be easier to open his door and shove him out. His eyes have drifted closed, too, but it’s an act. His breathing comes fast and shallow.
We get into Paris in the middle of the night. Dalton pulls the car over, and he and I quickly switch seats. I reach over and put my hand on Hadley’s leg. She wakes up as I navigate the outskirts of the city on blind memory, and her hand covers mine.
“That was fast,” she says through a yawn. “I hope we get to sleep.”
I laugh. We’re in one of the lower-class arrondissements outside Paris. It feels older. More tired. Being back here is like slipping into a lukewarm bath. No shock, and it fits like a glove.
“You have quite a few living spaces,” she whispers.
I glance at her. “This is the only one I bought. The cabin was Wyatt’s, and the Amsterdam one was just on loan, remember?”
“Your only house is in Paris,” she repeats.
“Basically.”
“You knew I wanted to live here.” There’s hurt in her voice.
How do I tell her that I wanted to come back for her—but didn’t—without sounding like a jackass?
She searches the deserted streets, biting her lip again. “Paris isn’t what I expected.”
“We’re about fifteen miles outside the heart of the city. I bought this just last year. It’s in a less expensive neighborhood, but I couldn’t pass up the size of the space. The neighbors are good, too.”
She smiles at me, but damn it, there’s something else behind her eyes. Worry? Something worse than hurt? She says, “Cute neighbors, old town, in a city I’ve always wanted to go to… I could die happy here.”
Any good feelings drain out of me. I can’t focus on her until after I’ve parallel parked, until after Dalton has manhandled Shade out of the car and Hadley has circled around to wait for me on the sidewalk.
“You’re not going to die,” I tell her.
She just smiles again, but it’s tinged with sadness.
I hate it. I want to scrub away all her worries, every last shred of her illness until it’s just her standing in front of me.
They follow me down the block, to a door set between two stores. It’s set up similarly to Shade’s son’s apartment. I watch Hadley as we climb the stairs, ready to swoop in to save her. She grits her teeth and marches up without stopping, although she’s panting by the time we get to the top.
My apartment has a metal sliding door. I unlock it and give it a shove. It reveals a large, open-concept space. The idea of too many walls was claustrophobic to me. I bought this flat in much worse shape, but once I had the deed in my hand, I started renovations. It’s a speck of Americanized modern in an otherwise old town.
Hadley walks in and turns in a slow circle, finally coming back to me. She slips her arms around my waist, resting her head on my chest. My heart seizes up for a second before I hug her back.
“This place feels like you,” she says.
Dalton closes and locks the door, glaring at Shade. “Coffee?” he asks. “This is going to be a long night.”
I rub my eyes. “Yeah, I should have some.”
We all move to the kitchen table. It’s old oak with metal legs and chairs padded with black cushions. This place is a bachelor pad, I realize. All dark colors and minimal design. Do I feel like a bachelor to Hadley? Is that what she sees when she looks at me?
I help Dalton with the coffee and motion for him to go sit. And finally, I join them with four steaming mugs.
Dalton and I glance between Shade and Hadley.
“Okay,” Dalton says. “Who wants to go first?”
Hadley grimaces. “I will.”
I want to hold her hand, but her arms are firmly crossed against her chest.
“It started two nights ago,” she says. “Well, last night, I guess.” She meets my eyes. “After you walked out, I went downstairs to get my cell phone. Someone grabbed me—”
“What?” I choke out. Horror flashes through me. “Someone grabbed you at my car?”
“I barely got away, I ran outside, but he caught me. Said his name was Patrick. He said he had been chasing the Angel of Death for a while, and he wanted me to help him or else my family—”
“Why didn’t you—?”
She shakes her head. “He said they wanted you to pay for your crimes. I didn’t help them, Griffin, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I take her hand. “I didn’t think you would. We have the sheriff’s office watching your parents’ house.”
My gaze switches to Shade. It’s easier to deal with him than Hadley’s betrayal—if I can even call it that. “Zach was going to have Mason get in touch with you around the same time. Maybe earlier. Did he?”
Shade swallows. “I put out a blast on the dark web the night before you arrived,” he murmurs.
“And who answered?”
He shakes his head, and his whole body trembles. “I can’t—”
“Fucking hell,” Dalton growls.
“It was a man named Santos,” Hadley blurts out. “He killed Patrick on the train.”
Here’s the thing: Santos haunted our team for a solid six months. We were assigned to capture him—one of our rare journeys out of the Middle East and into Eastern Europe—and take him to an extradition country. He was wanted by the United Nations. Scorpion Industries had scored a m
ajor contract, but it wasn’t just a job—it was a bounty.
They put our team on the case, as well as another four-man team. We had a picture of the back of his head, the name he went by—Il Fantasma—and who he was selling to. At one point, he came face-to-face with Zach, and only one of them walked out of that meeting without a scratch. Zach was in the hospital for a day and a half for a bullet wound. Worse, he couldn’t give an accurate description.
After a few weeks of tracking, we were diverted to more important jobs. But it seemed as if Santos had got it in his mind that we were the ones who needed to be stopped. He kept showing up. He sabotaged jobs. There were never confirmations that it was him, not until Dalton spotted him.
Dalton saw him through his scope. Santos walked into a building, and less than two minutes later, the building exploded. The military found bodies and supposedly confirmed one of them was Il Fantasma.
Soon after that, our contract was up for renewal, and we decided to leave Scorpion. It was only two years, but I knew if I stayed, I’d never be able to escape the darkness. Zach felt the same. He was smiling less and less. He didn’t talk about the boxing club he wanted to own—hadn’t mentioned it in months by the time we got on a plane to go home.
Each of us shouldered things differently. Dalton kept everything locked inside. I did, too. Wyatt expelled his anger verbally—he would explode, cutting words that could knock anyone down. To his credit, he never aimed it at us. Mason hacked. The farther he hunched over his computer, the deeper he was drowning.
Jackson… Jackson fought. Fists. Blood. It was all that soothed the beast inside him. And each of us had to help him through that, because there’s only so much a punching bag can do. Sometimes, he had to be hit back.
Once we were out of Scorpion, their communication with us was severed. It was as if they didn’t exist.
“You met Santos?” Dalton asks Hadley. He looks at me. “It couldn’t be him, Griff. I saw him die.”
I shake my head. “You saw him go into a building. There could’ve been another exit, an underground escape route—anything.”
Dalton sucks in a breath. “They fucking confirmed it.”
