Duty and the Beast

by Chelsea Field

  Connor stood up. “Then take Hunt along. Because this is exactly why I can’t be with you.”

  22

  I followed Lyle Knightley’s maid down the corridor with heavy steps and an even heavier heart. I’d tossed and turned all night wondering if I was making a terrible mistake, but there didn’t seem to be a right answer. It didn’t stop me from having to choose though.

  And Connor had made his choice too.

  The maid announced me and held the door open so I could pass through.

  This was the third time I’d entered Knightley Senior’s office. The first time I’d been trying to convince him not to hire me. This time I was planning to make him forever regret the day he did.

  “Ms. Avery. My maid tells me you have news about the case.”

  I smiled. “Something like that.”

  I let silence draw out for a moment, making him wait for it, making him start to wonder why I was sitting in front of him with this look on my face. I wanted him to feel uneasy, off-balance. In this discussion, I wanted him to know that I had the upper hand.

  Then I plonked the microcomputer onto his oversized desk with a thud. “Mr. Knightley, you might remember when we first met I told you I didn’t do this job for the money.”

  His eyes fixed on the microcomputer. “I remember.”

  “Great. Then you’ll also remember the reason I do it is for the opportunity to rub shoulders with famous people.”

  He tore his eyes from the microcomputer and put on a neutral expression. “Sure.”

  “You told me working with your son might be my ticket to getting cozy with some of those celebrities. That I’d get an exclusive story they’d want to hear about.” The day was ingrained in my memory since it was the last thing that happened before my relationship with Connor turned on its head. I made myself smile wider. “But I don’t think you realized how right you were.”

  I stroked the microcomputer lightly to draw his attention back to it. “You see, I found this in one of Isaac Anand’s computers when I was called out to the crime scene. I have this good friend who’s an expert hacker, so I recognized it for what it was. The police hadn’t clued in yet, so I thought to myself, hmm, if this baby leads to the murderer, I can either turn it in and be a hero, in which case I’ll be famous. Or I can negotiate with the mastermind behind the whole thing and get so rich I won’t even care about fame anymore.”

  Lyle frowned. “If that’s from the crime scene, aren’t you guilty of tampering with evidence and obstruction of justice?”

  “Oh sure. That’s why you’re the only person I’ve told where it came from.”

  “I’m not certain what you’re getting at, Ms. Avery.”

  “Well, I handed it over to my hacker friend, without giving him any context of where I got it, and asked him to find out whatever he could from it.” My fictitious hacker friend had been inspired by my dealings with Damon Wood. “You can imagine my surprise when it led straight to you.”

  “That’s impossible.” Lyle was calm, but even his calmness told me I was on the right track. If he was truly innocent, he’d be livid.

  I smiled some more. “That’s what I thought at first too. I mean, surely you didn’t mean to get your only son killed. Great piece of acting, by the way, blaming me for it and everything.”

  The muscles in Lyle’s jaw indicated he clenched his teeth before catching himself. “You’re insane. Is that the best theory you’ve got after four days of investigating my son’s death? You said you were doing everything you could to find the real murderer.”

  I kept my voice bright and perky. “I did. It’s just that when I found him, I thought maybe you wouldn’t want him caught after all.”

  “Why is that?”

  “C’mon, Mr. Knightley, stop playing dumb. The way I see it is you can pay me to keep this between you and me, or I can hand this little microcomputer over to the police, and they’ll eventually figure out the same thing my hacker friend did.”

  “Go ahead. This whole theory is ludicrous.”

  Well, crap.

  I racked my brain for something else to say, but he’d called my bluff. Said he didn’t care if I turned the microcomputer in to the police.

  I’d been betting on him not being knowledgeable enough about hacking to be a hundred percent certain I was lying. And that the risk I was telling the truth would be sufficient to force him to act. To either pay me off or try to get rid of me. Either way, he’d incriminate himself.

  But calling my bluff? What the hell was I supposed to do with that?

  “Are you sure you don’t want a minute to think about it?” I asked, buying myself some time.

  His eyes flashed. In triumph maybe. The bastard was more used to negotiating than I was, and he was wiping the floor with me.

  “I’m sure,” he said.

  I slipped the microcomputer back into my bag, moving slowly so I could replay our conversation in my head. The only genuine reactions I’d gotten from him were when he’d first recognized the microcomputer and when I’d brought up how he’d killed his own son.

  “All right then. But before I go, can you level with me for a second? Was it an accident, or did you mean to kill him? Rick, I mean, or Richard, if you prefer.”

  His jaw muscle spasmed again. “I’m done with this conversation.”

  “I know there was a lot of friction between you. That you didn’t always get along, but I thought, deep down, that you loved each other.”

  “Of course, that goes without saying.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I figured it must’ve been an accident. I mean, that’s why you’d arranged to meet with him the night he was killed, right? To keep him safe?”

  “As I’ve told you, we were meeting for a nightcap before that idiotic trial started.”

  “Do you regret not letting him follow his dreams of owning racehorses now? Like maybe if you had, he would never have gotten all that bad publicity, never have dragged the Knightley name through the mud. Never have been killed accidentally at just twenty-four years old.”

  An angry flush was creeping up Lyle’s neck. “Bitch. What do you know about parenting?”

  “Well, I haven’t had kids myself, but I know my parents never stomped on my dreams because they weren’t fancy enough. Or you know, killed anyone. I’d call that setting a pretty bad example, wouldn’t you?”

  “You think you’ve got what it takes to be famous, Ms. Avery? You wouldn’t last a second in the cutthroat world of the truly rich. All right, you might not fall victim to poison”—he gave me a thin-lipped smile—“but while your parents may never have stomped on you and your dreams, be assured that somebody would. You’re weak. Easy to take advantage of. I’m almost tempted to give you the money just to watch you fall.”

  His lines about being weak and easy to take advantage of sparked an idea for a fresh angle to try. I gripped the desk like I’d been stunned. “Oh my gosh. All this time I thought it was an accident. But you actually did it on purpose, didn’t you? To purge the Knightley name and keep it strong!”

  The angry flush had reached his cheeks, turning them a mottled red. “No—”

  “Yes, yes, I see it now. You’re too smart to make such a basic mistake. To rely on Richard keeping his appointment when it was a matter of life or death—it’s not as if he’d never stood you up before. Yes, I underestimated you.”

  I flashed him a smile as if I expected he’d be impressed by my cleverness, then hurried on before he could unclench his jaw enough to speak.

  “You never intended to have drinks with Rick. That was just a way to make you look innocent, but you assumed he’d blow you off. Heck, you probably offered Isaac something to make sure of it.”

  Lyle gripped the edge of the desk. As I had a moment ago, except he was doing it in white-knuckled fury like it was all that kept him from pummeling me. “Get the hell out—”

  I raised my voice over his. “You wanted him to die so the trial would get thrown out! You couldn’t keep the
Knightley name strong with a convicted criminal in the family. Nobody would respect you. So in brilliant, strategic, cold blood, you murdered your only—”

  “Bullshit,” he snarled. “It was an accident!”

  Lyle realized he’d slipped up at the same moment I did. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth got so tight his lips disappeared.

  “Like that was?” I asked sweetly. “Now we have my testimony to add to the evidence stacked against you. Also, this is probably the time to mention that the microcomputer I brought along today isn’t the one I found at the crime scene. It’s just the same model. The one that’s going to send you to prison is in a safe place, and my hacker friend knows he’s to turn it over to the police if anything happens to me.” I leaned back and swung my feet onto the desk. There was enough distance between us that I wasn’t afraid of him grabbing them. “So how much will you pay me to keep quiet?”

  Rage simmered off him in waves, but Lyle was in control of himself again. His tone was mild and businesslike as he told me, “The problem with blackmail, Ms. Avery, is it’s impossible to ever make it end unless you can take charge of the blackmail material. How can I do that in this situation?”

  “Well, I’ll give you the microcomputer once I have my money. No worries.”

  “I see,” he said. “Would you mind getting that book for me, the one with the dark blue spine that’s titled, The Art of Negotiation?”

  “Um, sure.” I wondered if he was only asking to get my feet off his desk, but I’d do whatever he wanted to keep him talking.

  The more he incriminated himself, the better the case against him would hold up in court. Lyle would hire the best attorneys money could buy, and if we had just a single incriminating line or two, they’d twist his words so far around the jury would forget he was even the one to speak them.

  I picked up the book he’d gestured to—it was more of a tome, actually, with a hard cover and the heft of one of those old giant encyclopedias—and carried it back to my seat. Unfortunately, I hadn’t allowed for the desk’s size.

  As I’d observed the first time I’d entered his office, it was large enough for a woolly mammoth to shelter under, which meant when I put the book on it and slid it toward Lyle, I barely made it halfway—even squishing my chest flat against the timber to stretch as far as I could go. At least he had to be equally undignified in order to reach it from his side.

  Both of us kept sober expressions and pretended we didn’t look ridiculous.

  He opened the cover, and I waited to hear what negotiation wisdom he would share with me. Was he trying to argue me down on price? A price I hadn’t named yet?

  “The thing is, Ms. Avery, I paid my dark web contact extremely well to make it untraceable, and I don’t believe you.” He flipped forward a few pages, revealing the middle of the book had been carved out, and scooped up a crude-looking handgun. “Which means we have a problem because you are now the one piece of evidence I need to get rid of.”

  Oh, this was bad. I raised my hands reflexively and squelched my sudden urge to pee. The Art of Negotiation indeed.

  But I had my own move up my sleeve. “Has anyone ever told you how squishy your chairs are? They’re very comfortable.”

  I’d chosen squishy as my safe word for old time’s sake.

  A shadow passed over Lyle’s face before he masked his unease at my unorthodox reaction. “What?”

  Hunt and Connor burst through the door. In socks. Because I’d warned them it would be impossible to walk unheard on the tiles otherwise.

  Why didn’t more movies portray gunfights in socks?

  I swiveled to admire them, which turned out to be a mistake because the damn mammoth desk had lulled me into a false sense of security. Lyle’s chair creaked behind me, and the next thing I knew the bastard had a fistful of my hair and was ordering me to my feet. I had no idea how he’d cleared that desk so fast, but since the hand in my hair was dragging me upward and a gun was nuzzling up to my spine, I didn’t argue.

  Crap.

  “Put your guns down, gentleman.” He sounded smug.

  I had a front-row seat to Hunt and Connor’s reactions. Hunt’s mustache was on high alert like the scruff of a dog’s neck or a cat’s tail, and Connor… well, Connor’s pained expression was a punch to the gut.

  I’d thought after our conversation yesterday he would stay away, but when I’d rocked up to the rendezvous with Hunt’s team this morning, he’d been there. Said he couldn’t allow me to get hurt if he could help it.

  And now his worst-case scenario of helplessly watching me die was closer than I’d been planning on letting it get.

  Lucky I really had been keeping up with my self-defense training. And though Lyle might be a mastermind at planned murder—and apparently leaping or scrambling across massive desks too—he was less adept at sudden violent confrontations. Between holding my hair and the gun, the idiot had left my arms and body free.

  I shut out thoughts of Connor and focused on the weapon at my back and the moves I’d run through hundreds of times.

  Take a few seconds to prepare, Nick’s patient voice advised. If they wanted you dead, you’d never have felt the gun.

  I needed to know for sure which hand was holding the firearm. And I needed Lyle not to pull the trigger while I checked. “Please don’t shoot,” I pleaded, turning my head at the same time. It wasn’t hard to sound scared.

  The gun was still in his right hand.

  I whipped around to the left. Hair ripped from my scalp, but I didn’t hesitate. My right elbow smashed him in the throat while my other arm pinned his wrist holding the gun against my chest, nozzle pointing past my shoulder. My mind noted the sound of a trigger being pulled but no accompanying blast. A misfire? My body kept moving. I kneed him hard in his proud Knightley family jewels and used the distraction to wrench the gun from his grasp. The momentum came in handy for elbowing him in the face. I skipped backward, gun trained on him, putting distance between us.

  His nose was trickling blood, but his hunched position suggested his groin pained him more.

  Good.

  Connor rushed in and, with a swift, brutal jab, turned the trickle into a flow. Then he grabbed Lyle’s arm, spun him around, and pressured him to the floor. The speed of this maneuver sent droplets of blood arcing through the air to land on the desk that had betrayed me.

  Trembling, I laid the gun down with great care and turned to see Hunt.

  He was flat on his back on the tiles.

  Oh no. Please no.

  I rushed over to him. It hadn’t been a misfire. I’d killed Hunt.

  I searched for the blood. Maybe he was still alive. I had to stop the bleeding. But damned if I could find the bloodstain against his navy-blue shirt and pants. What a stupid color for a uniform where people might get shot! My mind skittered in panic even as my eyes roamed over Hunt’s unmoving form. How the hell was I going to tell Etta?

  “It was only a trank,” Connor said from behind me, just as my gaze landed on a colorful cylinder lodged in Hunt’s thigh. The dart, I realized. A trank dart.

  Relief flooded through me. Then stopped.

  The rise and fall of Hunt’s chest, the sight of his droopy, sedated mustache—like a houseplant that had wilted under my brown thumb—imbued me with a new horror.

  He was going to wake up.

  Then he was going to kill me.

  23

  Three uniforms entered the room. These guys were wearing shoes. I half expected them to shout at me to get away from Hunt’s prone body since I was responsible for getting him shot, but while two rushed over to check on their commander, they barely glanced at me.

  “He’s only tranquilized,” Connor repeated.

  As if to punctuate his words, a guttural snore ripped through the taut silence.

  One of the officers snickered.

  I didn’t share his amusement. If this got back to Hunt, he’d kill me twice.

  Connor didn’t crack a smile either, merely added, “Firs
t responders and a toxicology specialist are on their way.”

  Assured their commander was okay, two of the officers went to relieve Connor of his burden. I made the mistake of glancing over.

  Lyle’s neat gray hair was sticking up in all directions, his black scholarly frames were skewed and cracked on his reddened nose, and his gaze was fixed on me with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

  Just as well he was going to be locked up for a very long time.

  As soon as Connor was free, he came and squatted on the floor beside me. My heart fluttered as he reached out and… switched off my audio transmitter. Oh.

  “A Taste Society doctor will be here shortly. I called them first.”

  It made sense. Whoever came would be far better versed in sedatives and far better stocked in antidotes than your average paramedic. “Do you need me to ID the tranquilizer?” I asked, keeping my voice low and hoping I’d be able to do that much at least.

  Connor yanked the dart out of Hunt’s leg—making me realize it was probably similar to a bee’s stinger, best removed to minimize the amount of poison that was released—and pointed to the side of the capsule where something was printed in tiny lettering. “No need. These are single-use Xyloxium darts.”

  The printed letters helpfully said: Contains Xyloxium. The instantaneous and nonlethal sedative Isaac had wanted to use in his microrobots.

  “Aside from the label, you can tell by the color of the liquid itself. See the neon-green staining? All batches are dyed before they leave the distillation factories to help authorities regulate its use. And these capsules can’t be unscrewed and refilled like a normal trank dart.”

  I nodded, but I was wondering how in the world Lyle had gotten his hands on one of these. Perhaps I should just be grateful he had. Xyloxium meant Hunt had almost zero chances of complications.

  By the time he’d rattled out another snore, his mustache quivering from the vibrations, Connor had stood up and Mendez had taken his place. She helped me remove my wire—which was a lot more complicated and old-school than the sleek watch I’d used for Taste Society business. But since she’d already pawed through my feminine hygiene products, having her hand up my shirt wasn’t such a big step.