The Finish Line

by Stewart , Kate

  She glances at Tobias, a soft smile on her lips before she turns and zeroes in on me. “Do you have a good set of heels, Cecelia?”

  “Already wearing them,” I assure her, taking a sip of my drink after we clink glasses.

  Standing in The State Dining Room of the White House two hours later, I look up at Healy’s portrait of Lincoln hanging over the mantel and marvel at the fact I’m here. I’m exhausted but running on adrenaline due to all that’s transpired and the fact that I have the First Lady’s personal cell phone number. I gaze up at Honest Abe, wondering how honest he really was and curious if he ever got his hands dirty—or had a similar monster, one remotely close to the one mine deals with. I stare on entranced until I feel him, a different kind of man, one far more aggressive in his approach to seek justice as he circles my waist and nuzzles me.

  “How did it go?”

  “Really well.”

  “You mean that?”

  “I’m surprised at how happy I am.”

  “Good.” I swallow. “I’ll drag the details out of you soon.”

  “I’ll give them all to you after some sleep. You’ll be in on the next meeting. I made sure of it.”

  I nod and turn to him. “You know it’s not fair,” I say softly.

  “What’s not fair?”

  “You deserve recognition for what you’ve done the same as any of these others. I know they’ve all gotten their hands dirty at one point. Maybe they had their own monsters. None of them are innocent. You deserve…so much more. You deserve to be recognized for what you’ve done, Tobias.”

  “I didn’t do it the honest way,” he says easily. “And even if their hands weren’t clean, they gave the impression they were. A lot of them were good men weighed down by others. And I don’t give a fuck about notoriety.”

  “I knew you would say that.”

  “Because it’s true. The only opinion, the only reflection I care about, is looking right back at me. And as long as she’s staring at me the way she is, I consider myself both validated and recognized.”

  “I see you. Even what you hide.”

  He pauses before kissing me briefly, eyeing Abe behind me. “As sexy as it may seem to christen the White House, and for a moment, Trésor, I briefly entertained it, there are far too many dead men with watchful eyes here.”

  I laugh and hug him to me as he whispers sweetly into my ear. “Let’s go home.”

  “Lead the way, my King.”

  Parking just outside the motel, I glance around to see a few cars passing by before approaching the door. Before I can lift my hand, it opens. Oz greets me with a nod as I zero in on the asshole sitting at the table. There’s an array of untouched vending machine snacks sitting in front of him. He lifts his eyes to mine, and in them I can’t see a flicker of fear, but it’s clear in his posture he’s unsure of his fate by the way his arms are braced on the table. Taking the upholstered stained chair across from him, I put my Glock on the table and nod toward Oz and Dave before they leave the room.

  “Quels sont ses projets?” What are his plans?

  He shrugs. His posture is still rigid, but there is clear contempt in his eyes for the fact he’s been holed up here for weeks, and he would probably rather die than be a prisoner in a run-down hotel.

  “All right, Julien, let’s cut the bullshit. You know that I know who you are. A born Frenchman who grew up in an affluent family in Côte d’Azur and graduated top of your class before doing a brief stint in the military. Shortly after, you were recruited into Antoine’s ranks which, to be perfectly honest, might be my fault because I told him what to look for. You’re also fluent in English, Italian, and Spanish. You had a shot at a decent future, until you joined him, up until this very moment. But I am curious as to why you played ignorant with me.”

  Another shrug.

  “So, you hate America?” I say, placing my palms on the table.

  He nods.

  “What exactly is it that you hate? And please don’t say our arrogance, because that’s also a French trait. I should know. I’m both.”

  Silence.

  “I’ll tell you what I don’t like about America—greed. This country was stolen and established by materialistic men. It’s an illness that’s plagued us for hundreds of years, giving the illusion of opportunity and freedom. And it is, but only for those who have the balls to take what doesn’t fucking belong to them. For those men, it’s a free for all. Have you ever heard of Al Capone?”

  He dips his chin.

  “One of the most notorious gangsters to ever live. The mere mention of his name could strike terror into the hearts of countless people while he reigned. Most know how he lived, but do you know how he died?”

  A quick shake of his head.

  “In a shit-filled diaper due to neurosyphilis. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s an undignified end.”

  His eyes widen slightly.

  “It surprised me as well. I could give a hundred more examples of assholes just like him, but none of them have good endings. Very few like him die comfortably in their sleep with peace in their hearts.” I sneer down at him.

  “Can you imagine what being lost in the mind of that sort of evil would be like? I don’t want to. I’m not him. I just learned from his mistakes and dozens of others like him because in the end, no one wants to be that motherfucker, do they?” I pull the return plane ticket from my pocket. He doesn’t so much as glance at it.

  “But America isn’t the only place that greed exists. Our planet is infested with it. France is no exception. I believe there was a hundred-year war forcing young gents into disfigurement because they practiced with bow and arrows day and night to prepare themselves for a war that they were too young to fight—a hundred and sixteen years of fighting. A couple of hundred years later, another war was declared by an overly ambitious French bastard. Can you tell me his name?”

  “Napoléon,” he says as though he has a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Another greedy man, and so on and so forth. I think you get my point. We all do what we have to do at the end of the day, don’t we? Because even if I’m willing to fucking share what I earn, it won’t be enough. Greed doesn’t understand the concept of enough. But these unspeakable acts we take part in are all necessary because we made up our minds on what lengths we would go to the minute we decided to play this game. I can be a virtuous man all fucking day, but I couldn’t have gotten to where I am if I refused to fight the residue beneath the surface. And that’s business.”

  I bend so we’re eye level. “But this is my personal life you’ve been ordered to fuck with, and in doing what you had to do, you just lost your future. Rest assured, no matter what hole you skitter back to in France—the American-made me is fucking coming for you. At least then, you’ll have a good reason to hate it. But I will grant you this, when I find you, you’ll die at the hands of a fellow Frenchman.”

  Everything inside me wants to end him now, but if I do, my message won’t be delivered.

  At this point, I’m prepared to face Antoine’s army, and I’ll be damned if I let that fucking thug steal any more of my peace of mind. This charade has gone on long enough. If it’s war he wants, I’ll do what I have to do to win it. Even as I dread the idea, there’s a side of me that hungers to get back into action.

  “Tu veux mourir? Et laisse-moi être clair, si tu hausses les épaules encore une fois, tu le seras.” Do you want to die? And let me be clear, if you shrug one more time, you will.

  “Je t’ai dit tout ce que je sais.” I have told you all I know.

  This I know to be the truth. The texts are too vague for this asshole to be Antoine’s most trusted.

  “Tu n’es rien de plus qu’un putain de chien de garde, et tu n’es même pas bon à ça.” You are no more than a watch dog, and you’re not even good at that.

  His eyes flare with anger, but he remains mute, swallowing his temper. And because I’m the bastard I am, I want more. “It’s a waste of your skills if you ask me.
You should have demanded more for yourself.” Rolling my eyes down his frame with clear disgust, I bait him for any excuse to strike.

  “Tu n’es même pas digne d’être français.” You’re not worthy to be a Frenchman.

  His answering sneer is barely perceptible, but it’s all the ammo I need. Gripping my Glock, I toss the table aside and hover above him, pressing it to his forehead. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. Gripping him by the throat, I dig my fingers into his Adam’s apple and bend so we’re eye to eye. “Dis-lui que le temps ici est parfait.” Tell him the weather here is perfect. I lean in as he struggles for breath, eyes darting toward the motel door, “Et que l’eau est prête.” And the water is ready.

  Resisting the urge to crush his skull with my Glock, I storm out, lifting my chin to Oz, who’s waiting outside, “Put him on the plane.”

  Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours until Tyler sends his finest—until we’ve got the protection of the Secret Service alongside my birds. It’s just enough time. And in that time, I have to come clean about every detail, starting with my history with Antoine. I have ten of those hours until Julien gets to France, and after that, the real clock will start ticking. I have zero doubts it will be another fight with Cecelia, but I also know it won’t break us to the point we can’t recover. Even with that protection on its way, I’m unsure of what’s coming. That alone has me hastening toward her, intent on keeping us as close as possible. Not only could my confession drive a fresh wedge between us, but the fact that I’ll refuse her any personal space from here on out is going to be just as fucking nightmarish. She wants my trust, but when it comes to the unpredictable, I can’t give it, and on this, I won’t budge. Pulling up to the café, I don’t see her Audi and frown before shooting off a text.

  Where are you?

  When I don’t get a reply, I reason with myself as best I can as I try to ease my rapidly pounding heart.

  Chill, Tobias, she probably went to make a deposit.

  She usually does before she comes home, typically carrying a bank bag with a receipt in her apron. I walk into the café to see Marissa at the counter, cleavage on display as she dotes on a customer. She lifts her chin in my direction, her eyes shining in welcome, as the man sitting behind the bar does the same, a distracted smile on his face before his eyes connect with mine.

  Mr. Fucking. Handsome.

  “Hey, Tobias,” Marissa chimes in nervously, drawing my attention from him. “She just left to make the deposit.”

  “Is she coming back?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Want some coffee?”

  “I’m good.”

  Glancing down at my phone, I see no message from her and try not to panic. I shoot off a message to my birds, lingering in the doorway as Greg stands and pulls out some bills.

  “I’ll get your change,” Marissa drawls out in a tone better suited for the bedroom.

  “No need.”

  “I’ll be off in a few hours,” she says, and he nods. It’s obvious they’ve got something going. Cecelia’s mentioned seeing Greg a few times back in the café and assured me he no longer had eyes for her. His new prey leans over the counter again just as I lift my gaze back to my phone before shooting off another text to Cecelia.

  She’s probably driving, Tobias.

  Mr. Handsome leans over in my peripheral, no fucks given and suggestively whispers to Marissa, and I only manage to catch the ass end of it, “—about the company you keep.”

  Frowning, I lift my eyes as he drapes his coat over his arm before strolling toward the door, whistling. He stops when he reaches me, giving me a ‘I’ve fucked her wink’ and the dip of his chin. “Tobias.”

  Blatantly ignoring him, I look back down at my screen.

  “She probably went on home,” Marissa sounds up, “she usually does after she makes the deposit.”

  I nod. “Okay, see you later.”

  “See you soon,” she beams, her eyes drifting back to Greg, who’s making his way towards his BMW. Marissa begins to wipe the counter, and as the newest member of his fucking fan club, starts whistling his departing tune.

  Irritated, my hand on the door, I freeze as an image of a hotel room in Paris shutters in before fully blaring into my headspace. I picture it so clearly, knocking over a half-empty bottle of Bombay on the nightstand as I scramble for the remote. I was ripped from sleep by singing, only pausing when I recognize the woman belting it out as Ann-Margret, the same woman who starred in an Elvis movie that Beau used to watch when we were kids. But the reason that memory stuck with me is because of the song Ann was singing.

  “Bye Bye Birdie.”

  Bursting through the glass door, I manage to catch sight of Greg just as he pulls out, his window down, his eyes fixed on me, and this time, there’s a dare in them, along with the smug fucking twist of lips. “See you at home, birdie.”

  In a second flat, I have my gun trained on him, but he floors his Beamer, and I curse as I’m forced to give chase. Frantically dialing, while I turn the ignition, I get no answer as panic like I’ve never experienced races through me.

  Ditching the phone to concentrate, I manage to catch sight of Greg’s tail and downshift, gunning it to give it everything under the hood. It’s when I get stuck behind an old Civic and Greg slips just out of sight that I lose it, veering off the road and honking the horn in warning before tearing through the tread to catch up with him. Scanning mentally through the routes I’ve taken in the past few months, I know there’s no shortcut that will get me there faster. It’s when he makes the few turns towards Cecelia’s house that dread engulfs me fully, and I go full-on road rage. Mr. Handsome will die tonight, this much I know. No matter my fate, he will die.

  And I hadn’t seen it.

  Has he been acting alone? And what is his connection, if any, to the French fuck I just put on a plane?

  I replay the conversation we had the day we met.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Am I that obvious? I’ve been here every day this week.”

  “That so?”

  He nods, before lifting his cup in salute. “Greg.”

  “Tobias.”

  “That a French accent? You sure are a long way from home.”

  “Fuck!” Heart pounding, hope plummeting, I do my best to catch up with Greg, but he’s too far ahead—in every way that counts. I blow out Dom’s engine making good time, but it’s not enough. By the time he’s on Cecelia’s road, he’s got me by six car lengths.

  “Please, be okay, Trésor, goddamnit!” I lift my phone to see nothing, not a single message from any bird or her, as more fear slams into me. What I do know is that I’m driving straight into a trap, and I have no fucking choice. If they’ve taken her somewhere remote to deal with me, I have no fucking chance of saving her. But I could see it in Greg’s eyes, he’s a monster of a different breed, he’s hungry, and he wants this to hurt. And he knows she’s the way. “Be here, baby, please be here, God, please not again, not again!”

  The sun has fully set by the time Greg speeds into her long driveway, and my stomach dips when I see the house is completely dark. The streetlight at the end of her yard isn’t enough to see what’s ahead or who, but mild relief covers me when I see her Audi.

  Odds are she’s breathing.

  Please God, this one thing I’ll ask of you. One thing. Nothing more.

  Forgoing the driveway, which the piece of shit decides to use, I tear through her trees to make up time, shredding her yard. I slam to a stop just feet away from her door, effectively pinning him just past the entrance as his first shot hits the passenger side of the windshield. Confusion mars his features as a shallow hole appears but doesn’t puncture, and I grin back at him because my brother wasn’t a fucking idiot.

  “Bulletproof glass, motherfucker.”

  I already know by the pitch black of the house and radio silence, Greg isn’t working alone. Somehow, he’s managed to goad
my birds away or distract them at the very least. My only hope is that Tyler is watching and can see the fucking spectacle I’m making with Dom’s car. And from the way Greg just baited me, it seems he wants me for himself. He hasn’t slipped into the house yet for cover, which tells me a lot. And he’s either a horrible shot, or he’s just playing with me.

  Bring it on, bitch.

  Camaro idling, I open both doors and glance over the dash to see his eyes darting between them to see which route I’ll exit. Instead, I press in the clutch, put the car in reverse, and floor the gas. The car whips into motion, effectively shutting the passenger door as I rotate fully facing him to get a clear shot. He lunges over the hood as I unload a clip to get him away from the front door. I can’t afford to take him out yet. I gun the gas, correcting the wheel as he scurries to the side of the house and speed toward the gate, again pinning him. He turns back and shoots on instinct, which has me chuckling until he jumps on the hood like some kind of fucking commando and begins raining bullets on the windshield, the holes he’s putting in cloud my vision.

  Our eyes meet just above his last shot as he reaches for a new clip from his slacks as I roll down my window. “You’ve got a horrible fucking tailor.”

  Before I can position my hand enough to get a shot off to immobilize him, he’s on top of the car, his footsteps above me. With no choice, and time running short, I jump out, Glock upturned just as his tasseled loafer lands square in my jaw.