Justice Mine: a Base Branch Novel

by Megan Mitcham

“Bollocks,” she moaned.

  Ozzy’s eerie voice jerked her from the depth of her tiny personal tragedy. Was it the end of the beginning or the beginning of the end? Was she losing control? Because she certainly wasn’t winning. Was it real life or all pretend?

  “Good questions, chap,” she said.

  Mags muted the ring tone and peered at the unrecognizable number on the display. The song had always been her favorite. She’d chosen it as her ringer for a shot of perspective throughout the day. Now the lyrics just wrinkled her socks. She scraped a hand over her face before answering.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Wells?” a deep voice asked.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Mr. Davis. I’m calling on behalf of Mrs. Fry.”

  The man didn’t sound particularly young or old. For some reason Magdalena pictured a middle-aged man of average height with a mediocre face and slightly pudgy middle on the other end of the line. Mrs. F had younger students work as her assistants, but maybe this guy just had a mature voice.

  “Please, pass on my regret for missing our meeting this morning. Jet lag and some other unforeseen circumstances tripped me up. I’m awfully sorry for wasting her time. I know she’s busy.”

  “She was confused by your absence, but is willing to reschedule, if you can come around six forty-five.”

  “Absolutely. Thank you. Please thank her for me. I won’t miss it.”

  They disconnected and she sighed. Finally a break.

  Mags placed the picture on the stack and reached for her thumb drive. What good was a photo of the man without a name? None at all. If Willow wasn’t concerned with her own drama, why should she worry? She shouldn’t. She would, still, but she could worry while she prepared for her meeting.

  8

  Click. Click. Click. Magdalena exchanged the clack of her keyboard for that of her black pumps. Seriously, she should’ve carried the shoes and worn her sandals on the four-block trek. But she’d wasted the afternoon digging for the weasel’s identity. She pushed past the irritation of finding damn nothing and embraced the excitement beating her heart like a drummer. Before she’d changed out of shorts and a tank into the slacks and blouse, Mags printed off the information she’d been after last night. Her thesis proposal.

  Whew. Her legs screamed from the beat of her gate, but no way in hell was she slowing down. She had fifteen minutes to get to the media building and then up to the race, representation, and cultural politics group of offices on the fourth floor. The trip took eleven minutes on a good day. Meaning when she wore flats.

  At least traffic wouldn’t hold progress. Campus cleared out hours before and only a few cars dotted the street side parking. By the time she rounded the corner and caught the building she sought, sweat rolled between her shoulder blades. Once she crossed the threshold, crisp air ferreted away the humidity, cooling her skin. One button later, Mags lounged against the elevator, enjoying the climate-controlled environment. She rallied when the car stopped and she exited left toward Mrs. F’s office.

  Head down, she smacked into a wall of a fellow.

  “Sorry.” She winced and grabbed the skin just below her hairline.

  “Steady there,” the voice, the one who’d called to reschedule the meeting, said. His hands wrapped around her shoulders, steadying her. But after completing the task they didn’t move. Each digit compressed, molding into her skin.

  Mags looked up into dark eyes. The man’s bald head gleamed in the fluorescent light. His thick shoulders resembled boulders stacked largest to smallest down his arm. Definitely not what she pictured from talking to him on the phone. Definitely not who she wanted to meet in a dark alley—or a deserted corridor for that matter.

  The hair along her forearms stood at attention and Mags took a step back. Reluctantly, his grasp left her. The guy smiled, but no pleasant fuzzies pacified her wariness. In fact, the expression gained a malevolent quality the longer it stayed frozen on his face.

  Run!

  Her body screamed the demand, but she shook it off. They were in a public place and her professor was just three doors down on the right. If she took off running in the opposite direction, she’d miss her appointment, again, and look like a lunatic.

  “Please excuse me,” she begged. The step she took around him pushed her short legs to their span limit. If it seemed rude, she didn’t much care. The guy gave her the jeebs.

  “Ms. Wells?” He repeated the phrase he’d used on the phone.

  Her stomach lurched at the dead tone that hadn’t come through on the line. Mags took two more steps before peering over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Fry isn’t in right now.”

  “Oh?” Mags hated the fear laced in her breathless question. Disliked the shiver rolling through her body even more.

  He smiled again. “Yeah. She’s at home with her family. You have family, don’t you, Ms. Wells?”

  Magdalena's mouth opened, but no sound escaped. Breaths came fast. In. Out. Her chest rose and fell. Again her mind yelled. Run! But her legs seemed crafted of lead.

  “Father, Easton Wells. Your poor dad’s a widower. It’d be a shame if something bad happened to him. And Baine McCord. I can’t quite figure your relation, but give me time. I will.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?” Fat hands spread wide in a gesture of confusion. “We’re just talking, right now.”

  “And later?” Her backbone revived from its noodle state and it showed in her voice. The strength she’d lost returned with her rage. How dare this bastard threaten her family.

  “Depends on what we work out now. Ha,” he laughed. “You’re spunky. I think I could have some fun with you.”

  Magdalena didn’t possess the skills to fight a man his size, but she could run, stubby legs or not. Anger spurred her enough that she finally listened when her body screamed once more. She turned and bolted down the hallway toward the emergency stairwell. No use in heading for locked offices.

  Her arms pistoned at her sides. The damn tote flapped back and forth, creating a drag that seemed to slow her pace to a cartoon-like jog. Unwilling to drop the key to every detail of her life, Mags gripped the handbag with the crook of her arm and kept moving. She stretched and pulled her legs faster and faster. Her heels slipped on the carpet and fear, pure and terrifying, clawed its way up her throat in a window-rattling scream.

  “Help! Somebody help me!”

  The noise only reverberated in her ears amidst the roaring of her pulse, ten times louder than Law’s damn motorcycle. No caped crusader appeared from the shadows to smite her pursuer, whose heavy footfalls pounded closer. She dared not look back, afraid of what she might see.

  Like one of those crash test dummies she’d seen on television, her arms and legs flew out ahead of her while her torso slammed into an invisible barrier. Mags flailed, struggling to collect her legs beneath her, but the floor came hard and fast. A shriek of fabric ripping combined with the thud of her ass and right elbow smacking the ground.

  Her blouse sucked around her middle and the fabric cried out again as he hoisted her off the carpet. One hairy arm looped around her waist and pinned her back to his torso.

  “No,” she screamed. Magdalena’s legs kicked wildly, seeking contact anywhere. The floor. His shin. The wall.

  He shook her like a rag doll. “Stop fighting. You’ll only make things worse.”

  “No,” she belted again. But this time a sob broke the word, making it sound feeble. Weak. Defenseless. Just like she felt.

  Hot breath caressed her ear and neck, making her wish she’d skipped the pinned bun and left it down. She fancied a brisk scrub of the skin he touched with a pumice. To rub him from existence. To run away. To be free.

  “That a girl,” he praised as her struggle waned.

  She went limp in his hold. Defeated.

  Law’s smirk flashed in her mind. She remembered the instantaneous reaction his sudden appearance had coaxed. There had been no b
uild up of fear, only response. Action. Which was exactly what she needed now.

  Davis, if that’s what his name really was, lowered her feet to the ground. Mags remained loose except for the iron-tight fist she held by her side. Her elbow throbbed front the impact, but she dismissed it.

  His arm uncoiled from her middle, sliding too slowly over her stomach. When his fingers splayed wide and climbed the peak of her left breast, her stomach heaved.

  “Oh, come on. I can make you like it.”

  Acid boarded the elevator of her esophagus and pressed the button for the penthouse. Mags swallowed against the onslaught, willing herself to fight. To be strong. But his hand traveled to the juncture of her thighs and she was helpless to stop her body’s reaction. Bile burned a path of scorching fire up her airway.

  Magdalena did the only thing that came to mind. She turned into the man and vomited.

  He screamed like a bitch as her stomach’s contents splashed onto his black shirt and cascaded down his pants. “Ah, bloody fuck.”

  His hands got busy holding the fabric away from his body. He hunched and arched his head toward the sky in an effort to get away from the smell. Mags spat the last of the garbage from her mouth, blinking through the moisture in her eyes. Her balled fist connected with his exposed neck and she powered into the punch as Baine had taught her, shifting all her weight into the target.

  It worked.

  The beast went down face first like gravity had suddenly tripled. One hand gripped the carpet and the other went to his throat. A soft wheeze escaped his lips.

  Magdalena snatched her bag off the floor where it had fallen, but abandoned her shoes as she turned and ran. She slammed both hands against the red emergency bar, shoving through the exit. The siren’s trill echoed with magnificent symphony in the metal column of stairs, piercing her inner ear. The volume didn’t match the frantic pump of blood roaring in her head.

  Her legs became rubbery, not so much running down the stairs as gliding over them in a slip-slop fashion. Her grip slid down the rail. Friction burned the tender skin of her palm, but she refused to slow her pace and couldn’t let go. If she released the painted metal under her fingers, at this speed, she’d simply tumble to the bottom. At every landing she took two wide strides then slid more.

  On the last flight Magdalena slowed slightly and chanced a look up. Davis didn’t give chase. Her lungs ached from heaving breaths and the sting of bile lit her throat on fire. The temptation to walk weighted her limbs, but she didn’t stop running. In fact, she steamed through the doorway and into the foyer, where she came face to face with a scrawnier version of the man four stories above.

  They didn’t look alike. Davis was bald. This chap had black stringy hair down to his chin. But they both had the same malicious scowl and dead eyes. Those eyes ballooned at her appearance.

  Mags could have skidded to a stop and landed in his reach. Instead, she pushed harder and lowered her shoulder. Even though the bloke was smaller than Davis, her teeth rattled on impact. His arm came up fast and caught her in the mouth. Stunning dots and diamonds glittered behind her closed lids.

  The blow couldn’t stop momentum. Mags opened her eyes in time to watch the man land flat on his back several feet from where he’d stood. Her hands shot out to the glass bank of doors and she smashed into one on the hinge side. The wrong side. A crack resonated a moment before sharp pain radiated from her finger and cut its way up her arm. It stole the air from her lungs. Air she didn’t have to spare.

  “Bitch,” the guy barked from behind.

  Instantly the hurts vanished and her feet started moving. With one side step, Mags pushed through the door. Concrete scuffed her heels as she sprinted toward the streetlights. This time she chanced a look over her shoulder. As she distanced herself from the building, Greasy Hair rose from the floor. A spike of adrenaline carried her to the road.

  The utterly desolate campus street provided no safe haven. Rows of lantern lights illuminated the nothingness and brought Mags acute understanding. You’re alone. Alone. She’d been so afraid of being alone in the past, she crowded her bed with men to ward off loneliness. And finally, after more than a year of self-improvement, she no longer feared it.

  Except, now, she did.

  9

  Magdalena’s arms waved as wide as they could reach. The effort cost her and she ground her teeth against the pain in her hand, arm, and shoulder. She’d pay the price as long as the damn hackney stopped. If the men caught her it would cost more than she was willing to imagine.

  Brakes screeched as the black taxi stopped a few feet from her bare, bloody toes. The driver opened his door. “Fuckin’ Christ, lady. You trying to get killed?”

  Mags hurried toward him. “Get in and drive,” she demanded.

  His youthful face wrinkled in rebuke. “Hey, I ain’t on…” Thin lips gaped open. “Are you okay?”

  “Please,” she begged. Mags passed him and wrenched the door open. “Drive.”

  “Yeah,” he breathed.

  She fell into the back and the young man closed the door. He hopped in and shoved the car in gear like he was running from the men too. When he pounded the gas, her shoulder hit the seat and a groan filtered through her teeth.

  “Sorry,” he said with a shrug.

  She watched out the back window, expecting the two to come barreling into the street at any moment, but they didn’t. When they turned the corner and she could no longer see the low-lit alley of hell, she faced forward.

  “I’m Martin.”

  “Thank you, Martin. You can call me Mags.”

  Magdalena let the cumbersome bag plunk to the leather seat, and then she reached her good hand into its depths. She chunked the file with her dissertation proposal to the floor and continued searching for her phone.

  “So, are you okay? Want me to take you to the campus police or the real deal? The metro bobbies aren’t far. Station house is five minutes.”

  “I’m sorry, Martin. Can you just drive for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  The phone came to life with a touch of a button, but she only stared at it. Dad wasn’t home. He didn’t have a cell and she didn’t know Ruth’s number. Baine wasn’t home. She needed to get in touch with them before those guys did something to hurt the people she loved.

  “Martin?”

  “Yeah?” His gaze found her in the mirror and bounced between her and the road.

  “I need to go to London. So, if you’ll drop me where I can get another cab, I’d be grateful.”

  “I have friends, Mags. All it takes is a call and we’ll take care of your problem. Free o’ charge.”

  She smiled and blood seeped from her swollen lip. The top one, maybe. Hard to tell in the dark with no mirror. Lord, she probably looked like a mess. Tough shit.

  “You’re a wonderful guy, Martin. But I don’t even know who they were or why they attacked me.” And that troubled the hell out of her mushy brain.

  “They?” His ruffly brows rose high. “Damn. And you got away? You’re either really lucky or a badass.”

  “Lucky,” she sighed. Really unlucky. But really bloody lucky.

  “All right then. Sit back and relax. I’ll take you.”

  “You’re the best,” she said with a sniffle.

  “Ah,” he said by way of a dismissal.

  Magdalena set the phone in her lap, curled her sore feet on the bench beneath her, and held her hand protectively against her chest. The adrenaline ebbed and the questions revved along with a total body and mind ache. Two men attacked her. They had targeted her.

  Why?

  10

  Law’s ears pricked at the sound of crunching gravel. Had his head not been in a cabinet the night—morning—before, he’d have heard the taxi and seen Magdalena before he peeled her off the floor. Not that a stalling walk across the driveway could have prepared him any more for the sight of her. He swallowed, remembering her soft skin pressed against his chest and wrapped securely in his arms
.

  He stood from his prop on the counter and walked to the door. Through the panes he watched another cab roll to a stop between the two houses. As much as he’d hoped she wouldn’t return, a shot of excitement plunged into his veins. When the blonde fluff of her hair rose from the depth of the car nothing could keep the words of praise and agony inside.

  “Bloody hell.”

  She turned toward the house, and the exterior light he’d left on in case she came back caught the unmistakable smear of blood marring her creamy skin. “Bloody hell.” The phrase took on a whole new meaning. Law was out the door and half way to Magdalena before she moved. When she took a step, she faltered and seized the open door in her grasp.

  The cabbie called out, “Here, let me help.”

  “I’ve got her.” Law stilled the kid’s move to exit the car.

  Magdalena’s gaze found him and her lower lip quivered. She pressed her mouth into a thin line. A hard feat for such sultry lips. The shake stilled and her little shoulders squared.

  “What happened to your face?” Law demanded.

  In his periphery, the cabbie threw his hands up. “She was like that when I picked her up.” His floppy hair shadowed his eyes as he shook his head. “I offered to go kick the shit out of whoever did it, but she fancied this place.”

  “Somebody did this to you?” His voice quieted, but held no less demand.

  Her slender jaw rose and fell so slightly had he not been expecting it he’d have missed the confirmation. His fists clenched at his sides. “Who?”

  “Inside, please?”

  She looked dead on her feet. Much like she had the previous night. Only this time she damn well could have been killed, judging by the looks of it. Her left arm was tucked against her chest, and, sod it all, her naked feet were caked with crimson. Dirt ruined one leg of her pants and her shirt looked like he’d properly mussed it. But he hadn’t.

  With three steps he squared with the cabbie and offered his hand along with three hundred pounds’ worth of banknotes. “Thank you for taking care of her.”