by Nicole Snow
I rub at the goosebumps popping out, steeling my courage. “It’s him, isn’t it? Lucient?”
“Yeah.”
I’ve seen anger before, in him and others, but I've never seen or felt anything this deep, this intense. This black wave rolls off him, hot chaos, curdling the air that's suddenly gone claustrophobic.
I wrap my arms around myself as he reaches over and opens the glove box while the truck rolls to a stop.
He swiftly pulls out the gun and tucks it into the waistband of his jeans. “Stay here.”
I force a nod. Don’t think I could move if I wanted to. The chills overtaking me are freezing me stiff.
I thought I could do this. I know I still have to. But now that it's really here, staring me in the face, these unpredictable monsters, it's taking every morsel of my will not to show him my terror.
Noah throws open the door and climbs out, leaving the truck running.
I flinch at how my insides jump when the door slams shut. Taking a deep breath, I whisper to myself, “Get it together, Mindy. Noah might need you. Sitting here, shaking like a leaf in a tornado, isn’t going to help anybody.”
My jaw trembles as I watch Noah stride to the black vehicle. Three men get out as he approaches. One from the driver’s side, two from the passenger sides. Front and back seats.
They’re big. Tall. Menacing. More like heavy shadows than human beings. The tallest is the one walking around the front of the vehicle, the driver.
Instincts tell me he’s not Lucient. He must be the one who got out of the passenger door in the front. The one wearing the flashy silver suit, the shoes with something bright and reflective. The other two are dressed in pitch black. I know tactical gear from my dad's catalogs, maybe it's even Kevlar.
Lucient, I’m sure that’s him, takes a couple of steps, approaching where Noah stops between the truck and their SUV.
The creep is as tall as Noah, but skinnier. Not nearly as broad or built. Younger than I expected.
Doesn’t have to be buff with the way the two brawny men dressed in black step up behind him. Each goon flanks him on both sides.
I press a hand to the dull burn in my stomach. Noah’s outnumbered. Outgunned.
A chill encircles my throat, locks on as if someone is choking me. Lucient stares at the truck. At me.
I’ve never felt such evil. Pure damnation. Total greed.
What the hell was I thinking? My knees are starting to shake, and I can't make them stop, no matter how I press them together.
God. I’m no help to Noah at all. More like a complication. A handicap. A freaking bag of wet cement tied to his ankle.
Damn it. I force myself to keep watching, fighting through the sickness of my nerves.
Lucient looks at Noah. Says something.
I’d give anything to have a gun right now. Even a crappy Glock.
Hoping, praying that Noah has two, I crack open the glove box, holding a finger on the button so the light won’t come on and alert them.
My hands are both numb. My lips quiver as I dig in the glove box.
How deep is this compartment, anyway? I’m up to my elbow before I know it.
At last, I feel something cold. Metallic. I yank out my prize and shut the glove box softly.
It’s just a twenty-two. A pocket pistol. Probably a backup he keeps, hoping he'll never be in such a bad place he actually has to use it. Shit.
I wanted power, not some little mouse shooter. This baby thing would be lucky to even break through the truck’s windshield, much less the armored vests those men are probably wearing.
Whatever. It’ll have to do.
Noah must have said something because Lucient is nodding.
Air locks in my lungs as the guy tucks a hand in his suit jacket pocket. I click off the safety on the mouse shooter and slowly pull back the slide to jam a bullet in the chamber.
The man hands something to Noah. I can’t tell what.
It looks like a piece of paper. A small one. It’s not until Noah holds it up that I see it’s a picture? Or postcard? He waves it, then tosses it on the ground.
Lucient gestures for the man on his left to pick up the picture.
If I’m going to use this gun, I’ll need an open path, so I gently push on the window control, hoping with both vehicles running, no one notices the noise.
“Fucking proof? This?!”
I release the window button and hold my breath at Noah’s growl. I’d only caught the end of whatever he’d been saying.
No one looks toward the truck, so I push the window button again, letting it down a bit more. Slowly, slowly, very, very slowly.
“This is your proof,” Lucient says, taking the picture from Thing number one, the dark-dressed bulldog man next to him. Thing number two is still on his other side. Feet braced apart, hands behind his back, waiting for orders to maim or kill. “That's your cousin’s car, Bernard. Believe me or don't. I kept my end of the bargain.”
“That could be anybody’s fucking car,” Noah says. “I'm not stupid! There are a million red Impalas in the world. You said you had proof.”
Lucient puts his hand in his other pocket, pulls out another picture, and hands it to Noah.
Shit. I know my man's every subtle movement, and recognize how his back stiffens.
“I see you recognize her license plates in this picture,” Lucient says. “Real number one. Are you going to keep insulting me, or shall we be men?”
Real number one? It takes me a second to figure that must stand for number one realtor. A vanity plate or something. Jess had been a realtor.
“Where is it?” Noah holds up the picture. “Where's this car?”
Lucient shakes his head.
I lift the gun up and slide the end of the short barrel between the door and the side mirror, where it should be hidden, giving a bullet a chance of actually hitting something. Someone.
I’ve never shot at anything other than fixed targets, never a living person, but that won’t deter me from firing if I have to.
“There's your proof. Signed, sealed, and delivered,” Lucient says. “Now, it's time to discuss what I want.”
“This isn’t proof of jack shit,” Noah snarls. “No time stamp. It could've been taken months ago. Or photoshopped. I want to see the car in person.”
“That’s impossible,” Lucient says, a quiet rage filling his dark eyes.
Noah tosses the picture on the ground. “Then call me when it isn't. When you have real proof. Solid fucking proof. Till then, we're done here.”
The hatred on Lucient’s narrow face, the evilness, has my finger fluttering against the trigger.
One wrong move, you bastard. If it weren't for his guards, I might be tempted. But I know the second a gun goes off, all hell breaks loose, and I can't have Noah caught in the middle.
I bite my lip, remind myself Lucient’s only one of three. Thing One and Thing Two have bigger, better guns, and sharper instincts, too. Their bullets will be aimed straight at Noah.
Sweat beads on my forehead. My neck.
I breathe through my mouth, trying to settle my nerves, my unruly thoughts.
Clear head. That’s what I need.
And a clear shot.
Noah moves again, taking a step sideways. Closer to the opening I need, but not enough.
“Call me when you're done playing games,” he tells Lucient, taking another step, this time backward.
He spins around then, and I want to tell him to stop. You never turn your back on a man with a gun.
He doesn’t listen to me. Even though I’m only thinking the thoughts. Just keeps walking toward the truck. He’s pissed. His jaw set. Eyes narrowed. Disgusted.
“Wait,” Lucient says, cupping a hand around his lips so he can yell. “Bernard, wait!”
Noah stops, several paces away, but doesn’t turn around.
“Fine, little man. I'll take you to the car. Tonight,” Lucient barks.
Holy crap.
Noah must be made of the same ston
e as the mountain. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
“Follow us,” Lucient says. “This is your one and only offer. It's not far from here.”
Noah still doesn’t acknowledge the man, but he does start walking forward again.
Lucient gestures at Thing One and Thing Two. They step forward, facing us and guarding him as he turns around and heads for the SUV.
I pull the gun inside as Noah opens his door, then drop my hand, hiding the weapon between the seat and the passenger door. The last thing I want to do is upset him.
Noah doesn’t say a word, and neither do I as he climbs in the truck.
We both watch as Lucient gets in the passenger side of the SUV. When he slams the door shut, Thing One and Thing Two move. Two climbs in the back door, One backs around the front of the vehicle and then takes the driver's seat.
The weight of the world falls off my shoulders and I release the air out that's been burning my lungs.
“Make sure you put the safety on before you put that gun back in the glove box,” Noah growls, shooting me a side-eye.
My nerves are shot. With a half-shiver, I click on the safety, dropping the gun in the door panel for easy access.
“Sorry. I couldn't leave you hanging out there without backup.”
He says nothing. While rolling up my window, I tell him, “You know, if I was a bounty hunter, I’d have a decent backup weapon. Not some little mouse gun.”
“Never needed my backup, Lucky, and that's how I mean to keep it.” He glances my way, and despite the anger I know is raging inside him, a hint of a smile flashes on his lips. It disappears quickly. But I know I saw it.
Somehow, that makes this all better – if only for a split second.
His eyes are back on the SUV as he says, “Given enough time and the right teacher, anyone can learn to love a mouse shooter.”
I don’t want to smile, but his reference to me teaching him to love opera is too heartwarming. It also relieves the killing tension that almost smothered us both when he first climbed back in the truck.
“Perhaps,” I say. “Who knows? Maybe I'll learn. Maybe I'll just take over your bounty hunter spot when you hang it up.” I'm joking of course, but sweet Lord do we need the humor.
“An opera-singing bounty hunter,” he teases, amusement flashing in his eyes. “That’s just what this city needs.”
I slap his arm. He glances my way. Our eyes meet, and much like the fireworks earlier had dissipated, the humor between us evaporates, leaving nothing in its wake but a stark sense of grim reality.
As a heaviness presses down on me, I ask, “So what now?”
He drops the shifter into drive. “We follow them.”
20
All In (Noah)
Damn. I knew Fuckface wouldn’t play by the rules.
Bastards never do.
I’ve always counted on that basic truth to have any crack at being one step ahead. The cold reality is it's always been the opposite, like during the disaster that got Harkness killed. There's little predicting a wild animal's moves.
Lucient's no different than every savage terrorist I chased down in Iraq. The pressure to deliver, to end this, is as strong as during any of those missions, where the lives of a whole village or the people back at home were on the line.
Too bad I'm off my game. I never expected the asshole to bait me with a chance at seeing Jess' car. I blame the distractions.
One distraction, specifically.
She’s sitting beside me. My beautiful, loyal, scared but determined firecracker.
I’d heard the window lower while I was in the thick of talking to Lucient. Knew she’d found the gun in the glove box and had hoped like hell she wouldn’t pull the trigger. She had my back, and I'm grateful, but fuck if it didn't shake me up, too.
I’ve been scared before in combat. Anybody who claims otherwise is lying. But hell, I never dripped ice cold sweat like I had at the idea of Lucient’s minions firing back at her if one wrong move was made.
“Gun back in the box, Lucky,” I tell her. “Leave it there.”
“Not unless you have a better one you can trade me.”
I squeeze the steering wheel harder. Not because of the rough road and its tight bends.
“Noah, I’m not stupid,” she whispers. “I put the window down because if I’d tried to fire that mouse shooter through the windshield, the bullet probably would've ricocheted right back at me.”
She may be right about that. “Stupid's not the issue. I know you're not. I also know this isn’t your fight. You shouldn’t be here.”
“We’ve had that discussion, and it’s too late. But I'm glad we finally agree I’m not stupid.”
I’m wound so tight, I almost jump when she lays a hand on my arm.
“Noah...relax. I swear, I won’t do anything that’s not absolutely necessary.”
It's maddening. This whole thing.
Mostly because I believe her.
It’s not her I’m worried about doing something, though. It’s Lucient and his lapdogs. Whatever he wants from me, he wants it bad. There's no earthly reason he should be throwing me a bone, taking us to Jess' car. I was braced for a firefight when I tossed away the postcard, to have it out with him then and there.
I never expected him to give in. To lead me to what I want. To set a trap I can't quite put my finger on.
In most instances, I’d never have turned my back on an enemy, but I had to prove to him that I’m willing to walk away. If he doesn’t deliver, the jig is up.
And Jess is gone forever. Eternally MIA.
My throat burns as fire scorches my insides. That can’t happen. I won’t let it.
“Where do you think we're going?”
“An impound lot of some kind,” I say, thankful for the diversion. “There's one around here, up the road, now that I'm thinking. Place I didn’t recognize.”
“Recognize from the picture, you mean?”
I nod, gnawing my cheek.
“So that picture really was Jess' car?”
Disgust forms a rock in my stomach. “Yes.”
I have the VIN number of her car entered in every database available. If it was in a normal impound lot, or is, I would've been notified.
The first picture he’d shown me was a far-off shot, a chain link fence topped with razor wire behind the car.
“Pictures can be photoshopped,” she says. “It’s not hard.”
“I know.” I hope that isn’t the case. Otherwise, it’s another dead end, and a potentially deadly one.
“Who is this guy?” she asks. “Who is Lucient, really?”
“Like I told you before, if it’s dirty, underground, black market, he’s involved. He’s fairly new on the scene, started operating in Reno and Northern California last year. Had enough money to make Reno his personal playground. His history's practically nonexistent before that. He’s connected to a larger syndicate, has to be, but there’s not a single string leading to which one. I've looked up and down. He’s flying low, too damn low, under the radar.”
Which makes him extremely dangerous, but I don’t need to tell her the obvious. She’s already afraid. “The law knows he’s dirty but can’t pin anything on him.”
“You’re working with the law?”
Technically, no. It’s not a true collaboration because neither of us have had much to go on, and the police aren't fond of openly dealing with bounty hunters. And the Feds move too slow for my liking.
My cooperation with the law ends with reaching out to my old pal, Perez. His DEA connections gave me as much as he could about Jess' case, and the asshole who took her.
For the rest, Jess is just one more mystery to them, a case file they'll spend a few hours on per day in between stacks of others.
“Jess is listed as a missing person. They're looking for her, too, but it's secondary to Lucient. Plenty of boys would love to find anything that lets them bust him.”
“But there’s only so much they can do.
So much either of you can do.” Her voice is solemn, cold when she adds, “Legally.”
Bingo. She gets it. Knows the fine line I have to walk.
The damnable murky boundary between the good guys and the bad. I’ve crossed it before, had to, and will again. But I don’t want her to.
That’s probably what she’s thinking, too. That she’s in the depths of something she doesn’t want to be in, like that game she mentioned before, way back, where you move the little symbol around a board with the roll of the dice, leaving the control up to chance and big money, power.
The minutes tick by, every changing digit on the dashboard clock raising the stakes, heightening the tension filling the truck, and both of us.
“They’re exiting,” she says.
I shift lanes and follow them off the backwater freeway. We’ve been on the slow, narrow road for a long time, and the route Lucient takes twists around, leading us back toward town, into the seedy, forgotten parts.
Places where thugs like him grow up and maintain connections after they rise up through the ranks of the underworld. Most people glued to the news fear the foreign terrorists overseas. And they should. Truth is, there are plenty of home grown demons, too, in vast numbers, and their ranks are growing larger by the day.
We turn again, take a gravel road that weaves around abandoned warehouses covered with the international language of spray-painted signs and symbols.
My instincts amplify. I know this area. Searched it months ago.
There'd been a shorter route to get here. One more sign Lucient has something devious planned.
Slowing my speed, I reach over and lift up the center console, exposing the deep compartment beneath. She’s watching. I click open the spring-loaded lid of the briefcase hidden there.
She examines the contents and gasps. “Assault rifle. Broken down. With a double drum?”
There's no denying she knows her guns. A relief. “Yeah. You know how to reassemble?”
“In an Arizona heartbeat. Dad loves stuff like this.”
I let out a breath, not doubting her confidence, all the while wishing she wasn’t in a predicament where she has to reassemble a fucking high-powered weapon.
Or anything else.
