My Cruel Salvation

by J. Kenner

  I wipe cream cheese off the corner of my mouth as I gaze across the park. A mom in jeans is pushing a little boy with bouncy curls on a swing set. Further on, a jogger in red slows on the path as he passes the playscape, then speeds up again.

  I take another bite, swallow, then turn my attention back to Devlin. “I assume you have Ronan looking even harder at Blackstone than before?”

  “I do,” he says. “And this morning he mentioned that word on the street is that Joseph recently took over Harvey White’s operation. Apparently it wasn’t an amicable takeover.”

  I’d glanced toward the jogger, but that pulls my full attention back to Devlin. “Should I know who that is?”

  “One of my father’s former lieutenants. Anna and I knew him well in Nevada. He carved out a niche for himself after dear old Dad was assassinated. And he wasn’t happy that so much of my father’s empire went to Alejandro. Who, until yesterday, had gone into the wind after being discharged from the military.”

  “So that means Joseph could be the one who outed you. And White would have had reason to as well. You left and screwed him out of what he believed was his. If he somehow learned the truth…”

  Devlin nods. “I don’t know how he could have, but as you once mentioned, no secret is completely in the vault. I trust the brass who helped me, but there were others down the ladder who would have had access.”

  “If they were bribed, might be a good place to start asking questions.”

  He nods. “Ronan’s already got some of the team on that.”

  I’m not surprised. Devlin and his people are nothing if not thorough.

  “My money’s still on Blackstone,” I tell him. “The timing is too coincidental. And surely Anna told him who you really are.”

  He nods. “It’s a concern, but Christopher swears she didn’t.”

  I scowl at the name. “Assuming she would have told him. For that matter, assuming he’s telling the truth.”

  “You’re still concerned about him.”

  I start to deny it, then shrug. A thriller writer, Christopher Doyle came to Laguna Cortez ostensibly to use the foundation’s library to research a new novel with a human trafficking element. All of which is true. It’s the part he didn’t share that worries me.

  “He’s dating Brandy,” I say, stating the obvious. “And he’s Joseph Blackstone’s half-brother, and he was Anna’s close friend. We know that Blackstone’s either causing the leaks in your operation or he’s benefitting from them. And, oh yeah, Anna tried to kill me. Several times. On the one hand I hate the idea of guilt by association. On the other…”

  I trail off. Because, honestly, it really is all guilt by association. And isn’t that what the press is doing to Devlin right this very minute?

  I gather my thoughts as I watch a couple stroll on a nearby path. A jogger overtakes them, his head turning to stare in our direction. I frown, because I’m pretty sure he’s the same jogger in red I noticed a few moments ago. I almost say something to Devlin, but the guy shifts his attention back to the path and continues on.

  “Did I lose you?”

  “Sorry. Distracted.” I draw a breath. “I guess I’m not being fair to Christopher. He’s been good to Brandy. Good for her, too. And, yes, I understand why he didn’t want to have his name associated with Blackstone. Who would?”

  “Agree,” Devlin said. “Add to that the fact that the investigation after Anna’s death turned up nothing to suggest he was involved. To the contrary, Christopher testified against Joseph, remember?”

  I nod. After Anna’s death, the investigation had revealed that Christopher had turned snitch against his half-brother on some drug-related charges years before. “I know. I just—”

  “You don’t want to see Brandy hurt.” He puts down his coffee and takes my hand as an energetic Labrador that reminds me of Jake bounds by, chasing a frisbee. “Believe me, I don’t either. But Christopher was completely cooperative. Lamar said he passed the polygraph with flying colors.”

  “I know.” I shrug, remembering when Lamar had confirmed that piece of information. “He’s just a guy from a bad family who came to the foundation to research a thriller and got sucked into the quagmire. Hell, it could be the plot for his next book.”

  He shares my smile. “It really could.” He finishes his bagel, then tosses the wrapping into the can next to our bench. “How’s Brandy doing?”

  “She’s good. Like you said, he’s never been anything but awesome to her. I think she was a little pissed that he didn’t tell her he was connected to Joseph Blackstone, but why would he? Blackstone was part of The Wolf’s world, and Christopher didn’t know that was a world you were part of.”

  He frowns. “Did she tell him?”

  I shake my head. “No. But I guess he knows now. The whole world does. Including Joseph Blackstone.” I suck in a deep breath. “Which means that he’s not the only threat.”

  “No,” Devlin agrees. “Just the most identifiable one.”

  I sigh and crumple the paper my bagel had been wrapped in. “Mr. Saint, you do lead a complicated life.”

  “Fortunately, I have a very uncomplicated woman at my side.”

  I almost spit the sip of coffee I’d just taken in an effort not to laugh. “You better not.”

  “Fair enough. I have a complicated woman who I dearly love. And,” he adds, his eyes darkening, “about whom I worry.”

  “I get that,” I say. “Honestly, I worry about both of us. But I still say that maybe this is a positive thing. No more hiding, right?”

  He chuckles. “Baby, I was hiding for a reason. And, well, it wasn’t even really hiding, was it? I’m not Alex. I’m not Alejandro. I’m Devlin Saint, and he’s always been very much in the open.”

  “Yes,” I say softly. “That’s true.”

  “But that’s not something my enemies care about. There are men who lost the opportunity to take control of my father’s empire when I shut it down. And there are men who were friends of my father who want revenge against the man who killed him.”

  “Even if they know you used to be Alejandro, they can’t know that you’re the one who killed The Wolf.”

  “You know better than that,” he says, and he’s right. Daniel Lopez was killed, and Alejandro inherited. Then Alejandro disappeared. It’s a safe bet that The Wolf’s friends always believed that Alejandro killed his father.

  But as there was no Alejandro to be found, no one could exact revenge.

  Now Alejandro is back as Devlin Saint. And that means the target on his back just got bigger. But by how much, we still don’t know.

  “What about Ronan and Tamra?” I ask as we walk down a sidewalk on our way back to the apartment. “Or Reggie,” I add, referring Regina Perez, the only other member of Saint’s Angel’s who I’ve met so far. I don’t know many details about her background, but I know she does undercover work. And as for Ronan, he’s as much of a bad ass as Devlin. Both of them were in Special Forces and have the skills to prove it.

  I glance at him sideways. “They’re all doubling down on their resources, right? Trying to figure out not only who leaked your identity, but also who else might be gunning for you?”

  “Way ahead of you,” he says, which doesn’t surprise me at all. “Everyone on the team is working intelligence. We should have a list of potential threats and sources for the leak within forty-eight hours.”

  “Good,” I say. I crumple the last of my trash and score a few points when I hit a nearby trashcan. “You know, it’s possible the list isn’t that long. After all, most of the men your father worked with would be pretty old now. They might have retired to some ranch in South America or a villa in Greece. Or they could be in prison. Hell, they might be chugging along just fine in the underworld, and figure the risk isn’t worth the reward of going after you.”

  “I don’t disagree,” he says. “But we won’t know until we know. And if there is a threat, I need to be on top of that.”

  “Damn right,” I
say. “Because—”

  I bite off the word as he shoves me behind him. Almost instantaneously, I see the red jogger hurrying forward. Terror spikes through me, and a few yards away a man and a woman seem to magically appear from a nearby doorway.

  “Mr. Saint!” the jogger says, breathless, as the man—Charlie, I assume—lifts a hand draped with a light sweater that I’m certain hides a gun. The woman, Grace, is only a few feet away now, having jogged closer behind the threat. I start to move around Devlin, but he holds me back, his arm an impenetrable barrier.

  “I’m really sorry to bother you,” the man blurts out. Hardly any time has passed, but everything has changed. The tension in the air around us fades. And though Charlie and Grace are clearly still on their guard, this no longer feels like a threat. “I just—I just had to say that I’m sorry. For what they’re reporting, I mean.”

  “I appreciate that,” Devlin says, and though I doubt the jogger can tell, I can hear the tension in his voice clearly enough. He’s still uncertain, and he’s playing it exactly right as Charlie and Grace come even closer.

  I ease forward, too, and Devlin takes my hand, and I know he’s positioned to leap in front of me if he needs to. He won’t need to, though. This guy’s no threat, a conclusion that’s borne home when he tells Devlin how he’d been living in a shelter that the foundation had partnered with to provide job training. Now he works data entry at an insurance company and has his own apartment.

  “They’re assholes for trying to make you look bad,” the man says. “I just had to say thanks.”

  “And I’m glad you did,” Devlin said, his voice smooth and friendly. “It’s wonderful to know the Foundation is making a difference.”

  They exchange a few more words before the man heads off. I see the tension drain from Devlin’s body and the way he nods at Charlie and Grace, acknowledging both them and the fact that the threat—such that it was—is over.

  The he turns to me, and all of a sudden, I’m fighting tears. “He was nice,” I say, having to speak in order to force back a flood of relieved tears. “I thought—but he was nice.”

  I draw a breath, calming myself as Devlin pulls me close. “I didn’t like that,” I say, tilting my head back to look at him. “Being scared. Devlin, you have to be careful. Because honestly, if I lost you again, I don’t think I’d survive.”

  He strokes my hair. “You’re strong, baby. You would.”

  “Maybe,” I concede. “But I wouldn’t want to.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Devlin’s arm is around me, and I’m laughing as he tries to kiss me in the hall. “Security cameras,” I tease. “Do you really want a picture of the owner canoodling with one of his tenants?”

  “I don’t want any picture that involves canoodling. But with you I would make an exception. Care to canoodle with me once we get inside? For that matter, care to let me film your canoodle?”

  My brows rise as I slide the key into the lock. “Mr. Saint, I had no idea that was something that got you going. Maybe we can—”

  I bite off my words as I push the door open, then gasp when I see the man standing in the middle of my apartment. Devlin pushes me aside, his gun up and aimed in less than the split-second it takes for reality to slam into place.

  “No,” I shout. “It’s okay. It’s Roger. It’s my editor.”

  Poor Roger is frozen in place, his hands in the air, his eyes wide. He’s let his hair go full-on silver, and he’s back to sporting a beard. All in all, he looks a bit like a svelte Santa caught in the act.

  “My apologies,” Devlin says, holstering his gun. “But do you want to tell me what the fuck you’re doing in Ellie’s living room?”

  “It’s okay,” I tell Devlin, who knows perfectly well how close I am to Roger. Not romantically, but as friends. “He takes care of the place when I travel. I told you that. He stocked the kitchen for us.”

  “And yet here we are in town, and he just pops in?”

  “I appreciate you looking out for Ellie,” Roger says. “But as she’s trying to tell you, I’m hardly a threat to her safety.”

  Devlin’s eyes narrow. “But you are a threat, aren’t you?”

  I look between the two of them. “What are you talking about?”

  “Tell her why you’re here.”

  Now I’m really confused, because why on earth would Devlin know anything about Roger and my work? Unless, of course, it involved Devlin.

  “Fuck.” The curse is barely a whisper, but both men turn to me. “You came here to fire me, didn’t you?”

  Roger grimaces. “Actually, I came to take you back to the office. Franklin wants to speak with you. In person, he says.”

  I close my eyes and draw a breath now that I’ve caught the sweet scent of a reprieve. Franklin’s clearly pissed—the man hardly ever comes to the office on the weekend—but I’ll willingly endure a lecture. Even a rant. And with luck, I’ll only have to power through a few months of shit assignments before my world rights itself again.

  “She’s one of your best assets,” Devlin snaps. “And you’re going to cut her off like that?”

  To his credit, Roger doesn’t cower. He steps toward Devlin, his chin held eye, his eyes never leaving Devlin’s face. “I went to the mat for her,” he says. “Fire? That was Franklin’s plan. I talked him out of it.”

  Devlin cocks his head, clearly still on edge.

  “Devlin.” I put my hand gently on his arm. “It’s okay.”

  “Ellie is like a daughter to me,” Roger continues, his eyes narrowing behind wire-frame glasses. “I’ve watched her grow into an excellent reporter, and I know that even excellent reporters make mistakes.”

  “Mistakes?”

  I hear the edge in Devlin’s voice and put my hand on his elbow. “It’s okay,” I repeat. “Really. I’ll be back soon, and it’s not like I haven’t known this conversation is long overdue.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m—”

  “Have you forgotten the last twenty-four hours? Do you not understand that anyone wanting to hurt me is going to do it most effectively through you?”

  “I have a car waiting,” Roger hurries to say. “It’s at the building’s service entrance.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” I tell Devlin, then rise on my toes to kiss him. “And I’ll be fine,” I whisper. “You can spank me if I’m not.”

  “I’ve a mind to do that anyway,” he growls, but I hear the tiniest bit of humor underneath.

  “You have work to do, too,” I remind him. “Lots of calls to make, I’m sure. This way, we’re both taking care of business.”

  “All right,” he says. “You win.” He shifts his attention from me to Roger. “Even a hair of hers ends up out of place, and I swear I will gut you.”

  “It’s a pleasure meeting you, too, Mr. Saint. I wish it had been under other circumstances, because I have to admit, I like you very much.”

  We leave on that note. Me biting back a laugh, Devlin fighting a smile I recognize as one of admiration, and Roger looking more than a little shocked by his own boldness.

  My good mood fades quickly once we reach the car. For the first time I can remember, silence hangs awkwardly between me and Roger. Whatever lecture I’m about to endure, Franklin is the one who will be giving it. But it’s not just work we’re avoiding, it’s everything.

  We pass a classic Mustang convertible, and Roger shifts beside me. I expect him to use that to break the ice, maybe comment on how much he misses Shelby, my now-battered but beloved classic 1965 Shelby Cobra that I used to keep garaged at his house since parking in Manhattan is so freaking expensive.

  But the moment passes, and he pulls out his phone as if he’d just gotten a text, though I’m quite certain he hasn’t.

  It’s not until we’re in the elevator heading up to the publisher’s office that he finally says, “I’m so sorry, Ellie. It’s terribly unfair.”

  It’s the first he’s spoken di
rectly about Devlin and what happened last night. “I know,” I say.

  He hesitates, as if expecting me to say more, but I really don’t want to talk about it. So silence lingers until we reach Franklin’s office.

  “Well, there she is,” Franklin Coates, the publisher of The Spall Monthly says as Roger and I walk into his office, all dark wood and dim lighting. He’s a large man, a former football player who comes from old money. He’s bald and his usually ruddy cheeks are even more red today as he glowers across the room at me. “Our newest ex-employee.”

  I stumble as his words hit me, and I glance back at Roger, who looks like he’s been bombarded with shrapnel.

  “Franklin, what the hell? You said—”

  “What?” Franklin fires back. “That I would keep her on as a fact checker? A reporter who doesn’t even have a sense of the value of a story? A reporter who, though she’d already been chastised for her close relationship with Devlin Saint didn’t scoop the story that he’s the long-lost son of one of this country’s most notorious criminals?”

  He turns his attention to me as Roger stands in shock beside me. “Care to explain that, Ms. Holmes?”

  “Not really,” I say. “And since I don’t work here anymore, I don’t think I have to.” Fired. The son-of-a-bitch had Roger drag me down here just so he could fire me?

  “Aren’t you even going to say something,” I snap, ignoring Franklin. “He played you and you’re just standing here—”

  “Roger is not involved in this conversation,” Franklin says, forcing my attention back to him as he comes around his desk and stalks toward me, his eyes narrowing into slits, like that’s going to intimidate me.

  I meet him halfway, not intimidated at all. Just pissed.

  “You knew,” he says. “But you didn’t say a word.”

  Franklin’s voice is like ice, and I’m tempted to just walk out. Why not? What’s he going to do, fire me again?

  “I would appreciate a response, Ms. Holmes.”

  “You didn’t ask me a question. You stated a fact. I didn’t say a word about who Devlin’s father was. Not to you, not to my readers. It’s his personal life. My personal life.”