“She’s not there.”
Instinct has me spinning around and reaching under the tails of my shirt for my gun. The door of the apartment opposite is spilling white light into the hallway. Some old lady in cheap gray nylon, her gray hair in pink curlers is peering out at me through the crack.
I freeze with my hand still behind my back. “Did you say something, ma’am?”
She glances down at my arm. She’s knows exactly what’s there—it’s pretty fucking obvious—and the crack in the door narrows to a fine sliver.
“She left ten minutes ago.”
She goes to narrow that sliver to zero, but my boot is too quick for her. The door rebounds violently, and she lets out a cry.
“I don't want any trouble, mister!”
“No trouble here, darlin’.” I lengthen my drawl to inject a little southern charm into the proceedings. I try not to kill women, least of all old ladies who look like crackhouse Betty Whites. Where the fuck did you go, Anna? Are you hiding in here?
The old lady sniffs. The sliver widens into a crack again. “You her boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
“A cop?”
Is she fucking kidding me?
“No, ma’am.”
“You a bad man?”
The worst.
“My Jerry was a bad man,” she says with another sniff. “He’s been dead for five years now. Best five years of my life.”
I force a smile, but it’s not a natural thing for me. Hell, it’s a damn sight scarier than my gun. She tries to slam the door on me again, but my foot stays put.
“I’m not here to hurt her or you, Mrs…?”
“Wyatt. Ingrid Wyatt.” I watch her gaze travel down to my arm again.
Slowly, I bring it away from my gun and hold both hands up in submission. “Anna’s in trouble. I’m here to help.”
Her sour expression slips. I see regret, and my smile vanishes.
“Tell me where she is, Mrs. Wyatt.”
“I-I don’t know.”
“But you saw her?”
The old woman nods frantically, her candy-pink rollers colliding together like fucking atoms.
“And?”
I trace the nervous glide of her throat, but those wrinkles around her mouth still aren’t budging for me. She needs a little more persuasion so I prop one hand against the doorframe, blocking the hall with my six-foot-four frame, invading her personal space with every shade of warning.
She backs down pretty quick after that.
The door swings open to reveal a shit-colored, geometric-print eye fucking. The whole place reeks of the kind of pussy that doesn't interest me.
“She used the fire escape,” I hear her say.
That’s when I see the breeze blowing through the soiled net curtain by the kitchenette.
“Motherfucker,” I roar, pushing past her to reach it, but all that’s waiting for me outside is the heat and humidity of South Beach, Miami.
6
Anna
I hit the ground running, my pink Chucks tearing up the distance to the next block, with my lungs bursting and my legs on fire. I only have seconds before one of the most lethal men on the planet discovers my deception and turns the call of the hunt onto me.
Run, Anna! Run!
I veer left, down past the liquor store where Eve first enticed this nightmare into our world, and then I’m heading east toward the taxicab rank on the corner. Tonight’s moon is a contradiction—full and promising, but shrouded in cloud. It’s one a.m., and it’s just me, my fear, and the cool kids awake right now. There’s a noisy pack of them hanging out on the sidewalk next to a bar. The doors are wide open, bleeding Post Malone and hot gossip into the night.
I force a path through their cigarette smoke and conversations, hearing snapshots of lives that seem so foreign to me: crap bosses, persistent ex-boyfriends—realities that are enviably mundane.
Not so long ago I worked in a bar like this; had something stupid to moan about like this. Now I have darkness snapping at my heels and a roll call of memories that won't stop haunting me.
I’m a hot mess as I push to the front of the line, chanting old cocktail recipes in my head as a sweetener to the bitter pill of panic.
Two shots of lemon vodka, a blast of cranberry…
There’s a spare cab there with its back door already open.
“Miami International,” I gasp out, chucking my bag onto the backseat and throwing myself in after before the driver has a chance to refuse my fare.
“Which terminal?” Probing brown eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.
“Departures. Any.” I swing my head around to check the back window. “Please, drive!” But the guy doesn’t budge.
“You got a flight, lady. I need a terminal.”
Fuck.
“Terminal C!” I scream as a tall dark silhouette appears on the sidewalk, barely twenty yards away. C is for courage. The cool kids are parting much quicker for him. It’s a privilege that comes with a Fuck You countenance.
Two shots of vodka and a half of peach schnapps...
The driver makes a tutting noise and pulls away from the curb. Still, I can’t seem to drag my eyes away from Joseph. There’s a part of me still reaching out for him; willing him to look up and give chase. But his head is still turned, and with each passing block the determination to escape is overriding everything.
We reach Miami International at three a.m. The terminal is an empty school cafeteria, and as I rush toward the check-in desks it feels like the bright lights are mocking me for being Miss Unpopular.
There’s one desk open. A brunette in her late twenties is chewing gum and talking on the phone. Her bored expression lights on me, and I hear her whispering out her goodbyes in a telltale rush. Slamming the receiver down, she flashes me the kind of Disney smile that would scare Maleficent away.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
“I’m not sure.” I glance down at my passport as my black overnighter drops to the floor.
She shoots me the same mildly-curious-and-irritated look as the taxicab driver.
“Are you here to check in?”
“I don't have a ticket.”
“I don’t think I understand, ma’am. Are you flying today, or not?”
I catch her fingers straying toward her phone again. Where do you go to disappear? Is it even something you can buy? I find myself glancing at the red and blue airline insignia above her head for inspiration.
“What’s the first flight out of here?” I ask her.
“Don't you mean “where?”” she says, a note of sarcasm creeping in.
“Both.”
She retracts her fingers and starts tapping something into her computer. “You need to visit the ticket desk, but it’s not open until—”
“Please!” I watch her brows disappear into her hairline. “Please,” I add, lowering my voice. “I need to get the hell out of Miami as soon as possible.” I whip my head in the direction of the exit, my damp hair showering her in droplets of water and desperation. Is he checking out the airports yet?
“Name?”
“Anna Williams… No, sorry, Anna Jackson,” I correct quickly. “I took my mom’s surname a couple of years ago, but I haven’t gotten around to changing all my documents yet.”
“Miss or Mrs.?” I catch her glancing at my empty ring finger.
“Miss.”
Hurry. My heartbeat is locked in a race with her crazy-ass tapping.
“Okay, Miss Jackson,” she declares, signing off her keyboard with a decisive click. “This is totally against the rules, but what the heck. It’s 3 a.m. and I’m betting all the airline ticket Nazis are fast asleep right now. There’s a flight departing in the next hour and I’m holding you a seat.”
My stomach lurches. “Destination?”
“Cartagena.”
“Colombia?”
“You did stipulate “anywhere”,” she says, sounding defensive.
“No, it’s no
t that, I just…” I trail off, my head in a spin. My last moments of happiness were with a man from that town, that country.
Is this a sign I can’t decode yet?
“Fine. I’ll take it.” I slap my passport down on the desk and dig out of my wallet. “How much?”
More tapping.
“That’ll be five-hundred and fifty-three dollars, including tax.”
I hand her my credit card.
Am I really doing this?
What the hell do I know about Colombia besides the fact it’s four hundred and thirty-nine square miles to lose, and then find myself in again? It’s also the country where the devil himself was born, raised, ruled, and then deserted a couple of years back. But the alternative is something I can’t even consider.
I’ll blend in…
Go incognito.
There’s no way my shadow will ever find me there.
7
Joseph
Past
She wore her kindness in a smile.
That’s the first thing I noticed when she walked into the diner that sold cut-price chili dogs in Hicksville, Utah, and into my life—or whatever the hell my father had left of it.
I couldn't stop staring at her. Her red lips were a soft touch I never knew I needed. The delicate Cupid’s bow promised a gateway to a place of new discovery. At seventeen, it took a whole lot of interesting to drag my mind away from tits and ass, and she’d achieved it in three seconds flat.
Rebecca was a survivor like me, but I never knew you could dress your pain up so pretty. Dogs, for sure... Maybe even horses. But since Pa went and murdered all the good, there hadn’t been much kindness shown to me by the system I’d ended up in. Beatings, nightmares, neglect... Every day was a new initiation into hell, until I bought my freedom the same way I’d promised myself all those years ago—by kicking the shit out of my foster dad and hitching a ride to a shiny new state.
And then there was a girl and a smile, and a glimpse of something better.
We talked.
She smiled some more, the small gap between her two front teeth opening up a path to a heart that was mine for the taking.
We married the day she turned eighteen. Four years later, we had a kid and a crappy apartment that felt like a sanctuary. We were teammates, taking turns to run marathons from our pasts. Mine took me to the front lines of Iraq and eventually Afghanistan. Hers took her deeper and deeper into herself, to a place I found harder to visit when I was on leave.
We bent and warped, until she broke first.
She smelled like summer rain and strawberry crush.
At seventeen, she offered me a life like an old Springsteen lyric, and I played that fucking tune until her and our son’s funeral six years later.
Later still, there was a girl and a laugh with an even sweeter melody. Hate silenced it for a time, but war would make it sing again.
8
Joseph
The tires on my SUV sound like a dying animal as I skid to a halt outside Rick’s mansion. It’s been a few months since I last set foot here. The place still looks the same, even if it’s under new management. The white stone fascia and marble columns do fuck all to disguise the rivers of blood running beneath its foundation. It’s a Miami perversion of the Greek Parthenon. We worship very different gods in our line of business.
Its former owner was a Bratva pakhan, another who paid the price for his involvement with Dante Santiago. Dante was next on the kill list if I hadn’t intervened, but there was never any hesitation on my part. Saving the life of the man who had saved mine, twice over, was an easy decision to make.
Rick greets me in the doorway with a large whiskey and an even larger smirk, neither of which surprise me. He drinks his own bars dry on a regular basis, all thirty-three of them, and derision is his resting bitch face. Tall and lithe like a bird of prey, his hidden talons are twice as lethal. The bastard clawed his way out of Brooklyn and into Santiago’s business, and then sank those talons in, bone-deep.
He’s richer than Midas, has an IQ of one-sixty, and is loyal as fuck to Dante, but the next few minutes are going to be about as enjoyable as a hand job from a pack of razorblades. I don't ask for favors from anyone, least of all from him. He’s the kind of asshole who’d hold it over you for the next thirty years, transferring the debt down through your family tree until every branch was tainted. But for her I don’t have a choice.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Rick steps aside to let me into his property. He doesn’t offer to shake my hand. He knows I’d crush every metacarpal, given half the chance.
“Fix me a drink first, asshole,” I say, thirsting for that savage burn. “We’ll talk afterward.”
Instead of unloading his Glock into my stomach for my disrespect, Rick tips his head back and laughs. He’d no more kill me than I’d kill him, but that doesn't stop us batting the idea between us like tigers at play on occasion.
“Have you and Dante ever considered taking lessons in social decorum?” he ruminates. “A simple “hello” usually suffices about now, not an all-out declaration of war.”
“Is that so?” Stepping further into the foyer I spin a one-eighty real slow and offer him my blankest, most dangerous of expressions. “Why not go ahead and ask him?” I hold out my cell like it’s the fucking hammer of justice. “Maybe preempt his response by volunteering to dig your own goddamn grave first.”
Rick’s eyebrows arch in mild surprise. “Who the hell pissed in your Cheerios this morning?” I watch him take a slow, deliberate swig of whiskey. “Has this charmless visit anything to do with my ex-girl, or are you just spoiling for a fight?” He glances back through the open door toward my empty SUV. “I thought she was getting out of rehab today. I was kinda looking forward to the welcome home party.”
“Ex-bar girl,” I correct him tersely. “Let’s tuck those misbeliefs away with what’s left of your fucking morals, shall we?”
“Would you like your drink thrown in your face, or shoved up your ass?” he replies idly, gray eyes flickering over me in amusement.
Still, it’s a warning shot, and I won’t be getting another. I need to dial it down a notch before Dante rips me a new one for starting shit. One problem: there’s a snake slithering right below my surfaces with his fangs bared, waiting to strike.
It’s not just Rick. It’s everything. It’s her.
She’s running from me again.
This time it’s different. I showed her the color of my hand, and she chose to leave anyway. Even after I’d felt her body calling out to me. Even after I’d moved in so damn close to her I could smell the sweetness of her lust beneath her fear.
How do you hold fast to a bleeding heart when it keeps on slipping through your fingers? You find a box, and you lock that shit up.
My hand strays to the chain around my neck again. Whatever is between us is spiraling. The more she pushes me away, the sharper the twists. The harder the fall. For the first time in nearly two decades I want a woman in my bed who doesn't leave by the chill of the morning light. Not just any woman—the one who’s merging with my every thought, every movement, every kill.
I want to consume her, overwrite her. But first… First, I need to find her.
“You gonna answer me, Grayson, or just stare at the goddamn staircase all night?” Rick kicks the front door shut with a bang, and I feel the burn of his look as he passes.
“She’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“AWOL.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
I follow the coil of white bannister all the way up to the first floor to distract myself from doing something stupid. This isn’t the time for macho bullshit. I need to keep her safe from herself more than I need Rick’s blood on my hands.
“She’s lost.”
I lost her.
“Is that a euphemism for her head space?” Rick pauses at the entrance to his study.
“I found her in an alleyway a couple of hours ago.”
I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans to stop them drifting anywhere near my chain again. “She checked out of rehab early. Decided to celebrate with a gram of blow. A couple of guys were busy taking advantage until I rang the bell on them.” A grim smile threatens to break through my deadpan expression, and I catch him glancing at my bloodstained hands. I don't regret kills. I don't even consider them a sin anymore.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Do you need cleanup?”
“Done and dusted.”
“And then?”
“I turned my back,” I say, my gaze slamming into his.
For once, Rick doesn't capitalize on the chance to act like a dickhead. Instead, he pulls out his cell and starts tapping out a number.
“How many men have you got, stateside?”
“None. They’re all on a flight, Pacific Ocean-bound. Already off-radar.”
Dante’s private island has location coordinates more enigmatic than those of the Bermuda Triangle. It’s his base. His life. His family. His home. I used to consider it mine too, but I’m not so sure anymore. I’ve been drifting rootless for a while now. If I’m honest, I’ve been drifting since I was twelve years old.
“Leave it with me… Danny?” Rick turns away as the call connects with his second. “I want eyes on a runaway. Sending you the details now.”
No one has the right to sound that concerned about her, except me.
“… I want her found and brought to me by sunrise.”
Over my dead body.
Next thing I know, I’m closing the distance between us, snatching the cell from his hand and chucking it across the foyer. It hits the wall and smashes on impact, sending shards of metal crap everywhere.
“What the fuck?” yells Rick.
We’re eyeball-to-eyeball now, barely a foot between us—my six-four giving me a minor advantage over his six-two, the width of my chest and biceps giving me even more. Despite this, I don’t underestimate him for a second. Men like Rick never fight clean.
Shadow Man: Grayson Duet: Book One Page 4
