Triumph (The Bellator Saga Book 6)

by Cecilia London

  *****

  She’d barely slept. Her new normal. Caroline would have a brief respite, an escape into the past, something to remind her of what she used to have, then wake up in a sweaty terror. Except now she was in even more pain. It was dark but she could see her misshapen left hand. Feel the swollen, tender flesh. Would it ever be the same? Did it matter? Would Murdock make good on his promise from the day before? Why hadn’t someone stepped in? Stopped him?

  The rules no longer applied. They never did if no one was there to enforce them.

  Disturbing how easy it was to disregard norms. To abandon the Rule of Law. Almost 250 years of a weathered piece of parchment providing a blueprint to follow and a single man and his minions could destroy it in days. Democracy, a noble concept, was only as strong as the people who believed in it. The most idealistic systems functioned at the mercy of the citizenry, dependent on the inherent goodness of humanity in order to thrive.

  Murdock had no goodness and certainly no humanity. Neither did her guards. The agents who had interrogated her may have stood up for truth and justice once but now the lines were blurred.

  When the lights flickered on she knew the drill. She sat up, cradling her left hand at her side. Like a puffy, repulsive penguin fin. Completely useless. What would she do if they took away both hands? Use her feet? Her teeth? Her elbows? Her wits were fading; she sure as hell couldn’t use those. She had no ace up her sleeve. And she’d always sucked at cards anyway.

  Fischer stormed inside the cell. “Up we go,” he said. Powell was right behind him. Of course. Couldn’t function without his new right hand man.

  Maybe her wits weren’t completely gone. “What if I don’t wanna?” she said.

  Powell laughed. “Told you she’d mouth off. You owe me a fiver.”

  Fischer yanked her up by her bad hand. Bastard. She yelped, unable to suppress the pain radiating through her arm. “I don’t owe you shit,” he said. “Look, I made her cry already.”

  Caroline took a deep breath. “Does that make you feel like a big man?” she asked, grateful her voice didn’t shake. “How about we smash your hand with a hammer and see how you react? I bet you’d cry like a goddamn baby.”

  Powell snorted. “She’s got you there.”

  Fischer intentionally rammed her into the door as they entered the hall. She’d definitely hit a nerve. “Fuck you both.”

  Stupid Powell. He was no help. Like he was her fucking friend. He was goading Fischer, ragging on him so he’d be worse on her. Asshole. The two guards were in practically chirpy moods. They couldn’t wait for their boss to take his sick little fantasies out on her.

  Murdock was already in the interrogation room when they got there, hammer in hand. Fuck. He’d been serious. He gave her his signature unsettling, creepy smile. “Sleep well?”

  He knew damn well she hadn’t. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “That’s my line,” he said, twirling his finger as Powell and Fischer shoved her into the chair across from his. “Has your memory become clearer this morning?”

  Fischer had already pinned her arm to the table. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she managed, right before Murdock brought the hammer down on her right hand. Once. Twice. Three times. The pain was almost worse even though she’d been able to anticipate it. Was that how it worked? Even if you suffered through something, your body would react like it was fresh and new? How tremendously fucking unfair.

  She tried not to cry. Told herself not to cry. But hell, if a simple jostle from Fischer had provoked involuntary tears, she couldn’t keep them away when someone caused her genuine, severe pain.

  Don’t put your head down. Don’t sob. Keep it together.

  Caroline bit her lip, tasting blood. Murdock was wiping the hammer off. He hadn’t broken the skin. The move was meant purely to taunt. To remind her he still had his preferred tool of torture at his disposal. Fischer and Powell laughed.

  She stared at her hand. A misshapen blob of flesh. Two days, five strikes of the hammer, two useless appendages. No one would stop her torture. No one would save her. She would die in this place, driven slowly to insanity in isolation, compelled to endlessly ponder what her tormentors would do next. Her soul broke apart a little more.

  And she wept.

  *****

  “Control yourself,” Jack said quietly.

  Like he was one to talk. His fists were clenched as tightly as hers. And he didn’t have damn memories dogging him everywhere he went.

  That motherfucker had dared lay a hand on her children. Pretended to alleviate their pain. Laid it on as thick as he could, singing a refrain of counterfeit penitence that could only come from the blackest of souls. Caroline bit the inside of her cheek. She could do this. She could tamp down the rage. Compartmentalize like she’d done for months. Only now she had plenty to keep her going. Her husband. Her daughters. Her best friend. Her fellow revolutionaries. She could push aside distractions, focus on the here and now. On this solitary battle.

  She was Commander Caroline Gerard, leader of the new American Revolution. She had the heart of a goddamn lion. She’d crawled through the desert, battling wind and sand and blistering heat to come out ahead. Her scars were her trophies. Her crown of roses. Her proof of victory. Her hair was as fiery as her soul. Fuck him. She’d stay above the fray if it killed her.

  “It’s standard protocol.” Caroline could hear Christine’s voice just outside the door. “Especially when all of us are meeting. Security, you know.”

  Cool, calm, and completely fucking collected. Ice water in her veins. Senator Sullivan deserved an Oscar for her performance. And it sounded like Murdock was buying it.

  “That seems a little unnecessary,” he said. “Especially-” Murdock stepped into the room, eyeing his surroundings. “Where are Roger and Brian?”

  Christine smiled. “Sorry, Jeffrey. It’s just us. And a few members of law enforcement.”

  His gaze rested on Caroline and Jack. “Impossible,” he said.

  Caroline straightened her shoulders. She owned this moment. “Someone looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

  “I-”

  Mouton placed her hand on Murdock’s shoulder. “Sir, I have a warrant for your arrest. You’re to come with us.”

  The other Mounties raised their guns. Murdock looked like he was mulling his options, his eyes darting back and forth from Caroline and Jack, to the door, to the multiple men pointing firearms in his direction. “How-?”

  His confusion was amusing enough that Caroline laughed. Maybe that meant she was a little more unstable than she thought. She wriggled her fingers at him before pressing them to her stomach. Yeah, he wouldn’t miss that message. I healed. I survived. I’m stronger than you. “Should have checked for a pulse before you left the room, asshole.”

  He lunged toward her. “You goddamn bitch.”

  Jack shoved in front of Caroline, grabbing Mouton’s gun and slamming Murdock against the wall. “Stand back,” he said to the Mounties. “I have this.”

  Oh, shit. This was not good. She wanted to taunt Murdock but didn’t intend for her husband to jump into the morass with her. “Jack, don’t,” Caroline whispered.

  Maybe he hadn’t heard her. Maybe he didn’t care. He brought the gun to Murdock’s temple, his other hand around his throat. “Do you get your kicks from hurting women? Torturing them and leaving them to die? Do you?”

  “You can’t prove anything,” Murdock choked.

  Caroline had considered that Jack would lose his temper, but figured it would only happen if she let hers spiral out of control. Rather silly of her. How had they both reacted when confronted with reality? Both she and her husband had a history of physical assault, and were intensifying their behavior in hazardous ways.

  She had to de-escalate. Bring it down. Inject some levity. If she spoke maybe it would bring Jack back to reality, remind him why they were there. Otherwise he was liable to engage in conduct he couldn’t take back. “The ICC
seemed to find my firsthand account of your behavior fairly absorbing,” Caroline said. “In case you’re wondering, The Hague is lovely this time of year.”

  Jack flexed his fingers against Murdock’s throat, drawing a weak gurgle.

  “Sir.” Bourgeois stepped forward. “Let him go. Let us do our jobs.”

  “Fuck that,” Jack said, pressing the gun to Murdock’s temple again.

  Any number of things could go wrong. The weapon could discharge. Murdock could wrestle it away. Everyone in the room was in peril. Christine put her hand on Jack’s shoulder. He flinched but didn’t slacken his grip on the gun or Murdock.

  “Jack,” she said quietly. “Put the gun down.”

  The message was subtle, but clear. Chrissy would carry the water for her. For both of them. She knew Caroline was far, far too close to the situation. Christine and Jack were getting along better; the negative undercurrent that once drove their relationship now had a hint of deference. Exactly what was needed.

  She squeezed his shoulder. “Give me the gun.”

  “You know what he did to her,” he said. “He deserves to die.”

  “He’s not worth it.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. “The fuck he isn’t.”

  Christine’s fingers were practically embedded in his shirt. “Don’t do this to Caroline. She needs you. Your children need you. Let the justice system do its job.”

  He clutched Murdock’s throat tighter. Would he listen to her? The other man was starting to sweat. Jack didn’t look too comfortable either. He’d press the gun against Murdock’s temple, pull it back, press it again. It seemed to happen in slow motion, the entire room swirling in quarter time. Christine was talking but Caroline couldn’t make out the words.

  Do it, Jack, she thought. Fucking do it.

  He turned to her, his forearm pressed against Murdock’s windpipe. “He hurt you.”

  Her husband had defended her honor countless times. Buchanan, Powell, now Murdock. She didn’t deserve his veneration, especially when her halo was so very tarnished. He couldn’t indulge their deepest, darkest, most damaging desires, even if they were thinking the exact same thing. They had to be better than the lowest common denominator. Banality became neither of them. Caroline shook her head back and forth.

  It took a minute. He gave her a look, she shook her head again, and Jack lifted his gun hand. “If you ever come near my family again, I will kill you,” he snarled. “Understand?”

  Christine peeled the gun away from him as he stepped back, handing it to Caroline. “I really don’t want to hold this. Perhaps you should give it to the Mounties.”

  Chrissy trusted her. Caroline needed to respect that. And still…that feeling came back. The anger, the frustration, the festering vengeful itch she could never quite scratch. Compartmentalization couldn’t do away with it completely.

  Murdock grabbed her by the throat. “Your suffering isn’t over yet, Gerard. I’ve got plans for you.”

  “You’re a bastard,” she choked out.

  “Yes, but I’m free and in fantastic health, unlike you.” Murdock released her, picking the bloody items up off the table, tossing them back into the box. “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll be with your children soon enough. I think we’ve had enough fun for today, though. Don’t you?”

  Fun. She could teach Jeffrey Murdock her version of fun. Caroline shoved past Christine and Jack and brought the gun down hard on Murdock’s nose. “Now you know how it feels.”

  Mouton ran up behind her. “And that’s enough of that,” she said, taking the weapon.

  Not quite. Murdock sank to the floor. “Goddamn bitch.”

  What was it he’d told her children? She had…tenacity? Caroline stared at him before glancing at her beautiful pointy toed heels. They were worth the sacrifice. She kicked him as hard as she could in the face. “That’s for my daughters,” she said. “And Chrissy. And fuck, for Jack too. All of us.” She brought her foot back again. One more couldn’t hurt.

  Christine yanked her backward. “Caroline, please,” she said, staring at the blood spattered across the patent leather. “Think of the shoes.”

  Chrissy had always been a fan of flawless footwear. And it had been fun while it lasted. “I restrained myself,” Caroline said. “It’s not like I shot him. I could have given him a stiletto to the skull.”

  “Should have,” Jones called out.

  Oh, yeah. They had an audience. Witnesses. Thank God they hadn’t done more.

  Bourgeois lifted Murdock to his feet and cuffed him behind his back. “A plane is waiting to take you to the Netherlands,” he said.

  “I need medical attention,” Murdock said, blood dripping down his face.

  Bourgeois cocked his head. “I see no injury. Do you?”

  “Not a one,” Mouton said.

  Jack took a deep breath. “I apologize.” He nodded at each of the Mounties in turn. “I should not have let that occur.”

  Murdock glared at him. “I knew you couldn’t do it.”

  Christine shoved Caroline out of the way and slammed her knee into Murdock’s groin, smiling as he doubled over in pain. “Go fuck yourself, Jeffrey. You’re lucky I’m not armed. I don’t have quite the moral sensibility of Governor McIntyre or Representative Gerard.”

  Mouton motioned to the other Mounties, pointing them out the door. “Are you finished, Senator?” She turned to Caroline. “Need another turn?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m good.”

  Bourgeois smiled. “You can’t fault these people for wanting to get one or two jabs in.”

  “I didn’t see anything unseemly. I just asked if they were finished.” Mouton lifted Murdock to his feet by one arm, as Bourgeois took the other. “You’ve got a flight to catch.” She turned to the three of them. “It’s been a joy.”

  Christine somehow managed to recover her gravitas first. “Thank you. All of you.”

  As soon as the Mounties dispersed, Caroline dissolved into relieved giggles. “You kicked that asshole in the crotch. That was awesome.”

  “I would have preferred she punch the guy,” Jones said. “Break a few more bones in his goddamn face.”

  “Naw.” Crunch unloaded his weapon. “She’d mess up her hand that way. She’s got as much bottled up inside her as Princess.”

  “Jack?” Christine turned around. “Care to give us your thoughts on the matter?”

  “No,” he said. “I do not.”

  “Did you two coordinate that?” Gig asked, pointing at Caroline and Christine. “That’s Gerard’s signature move, you know.”

  “All women should know how to kick men in the bits. Knee, meet man parts.” Caroline glared at Jack. “Speaking of unrestrained violence, you promised to hold your temper.”

  He gave her a look remarkably free of shame. “I lied. You’re the one who smashed his face.”

  “I’d do it again if given the chance.”

  Christine straightened her jacket. “Our conduct was highly unprofessional. I’ll have to apologize to the Mounties the next time I see them.”

  They probably needed to send them flowers or chocolates or something. Gig patted Caroline on the shoulder. “Might I suggest you go back upstairs?”

  No sense in making themselves targets. Trust one of their bodyguards to remind them that exposure and danger were only a millisecond away.

  “Murdock will undoubtedly get word to Washington that you’re alive,” Jack said.

  Caroline had already mentally prepared herself for the fallout. “We knew this day would come. But at least he’s in custody.”

  “Hopefully Santos will join him soon,” Christine added.

  “If I have anything to say about it, he’s going to get a lot more than that.” Jack prodded them toward the door. “I’ve had enough stress for the day. I need a damn drink.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Wish I’d been there. I’m jealous of Aunt Chrissy.”

  Caroline smoothed out the comforter on Marguerite’s bed. �
�No, you aren’t. None of us behaved appropriately.”

  “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t justified.”

  True. “I’d prefer the examples we set for you don’t involve assault and contemplated homicide.”

  Marguerite took a seat next to her. “I don’t see the issue.”

  “I do. I’d rather you not repeat my mistakes.”

  “They weren’t mistakes. I’ll do what I have to do.”

  Caroline knew what was coming. Her eldest daughter hadn’t said much but she’d let a few comments slip here and there. About military service. Doing what was right. Protecting baseball, apple pie, and the American Way. Making sure Aunt Chrissy was nudging the Prime Minister in the right direction.

  “I want to go to California with you and Jack,” Marguerite said.

  Yup. Right on cue. “Absolutely not. You’re too young.”

  “I’m almost eighteen. I can go now or find you later.”

  Oh, the recalcitrance of youth. “No.”

  “I want to fight.”

  Not only recalcitrance, but unchecked brio. “You don’t know what kind of fight it is, Mo. None.”

  “It’s a necessary fight. I want to help stop Santos.”

  Perhaps Caroline had erred in not telling her daughter more about The Fed. It was sure as hell coming back to bite her now. “You can’t. Not at your age, without training.”

  “Everyone can help. The smallest contribution can make a difference. You taught me that. Remember the story about the boy throwing the starfish into the sea? He couldn’t save them all but he saved as many as he could. That’s what I want to do.”

  Her daughter didn’t understand what she was saying. What she was advocating. All that blazing determination would fade when reality hit, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

  “We’re not talking good works or humanitarian efforts, Mo. This is life and death. Real people suffering real consequences.”

  Marguerite motioned toward her mother’s face. “You think I don’t know that?”

  Ah, yes. The obvious, physical damage, far eclipsed by the emotional. Her daughter had no concept of what those dual torments really meant.