Retribution

by Shana Figueroa

  Sten leaned over her. She opened her eyes and watched his lips come within an inch of hers, so close she could smell coffee and mint on his breath. Maybe she could settle for Sten. He wasn’t so bad. Yeah, he’d done some terrible things, but so had she. They weren’t that different. Hell, she needed somebody, anybody. His lips parted.

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” he said. He slapped her thigh and she jumped. “Enough dillydallying. Get dressed and meet me at the corner. Don’t take more than two minutes.” He sat up and got out.

  Val pushed herself into a sitting position and took a moment to reorient back to reality. Of course she’d never date Sten again. What the hell had she been thinking? He might not be willing or able to kill her, but if Max was fair game, then Sten was her enemy, no matter their shared interests. If he so much as looked at Max crossly, she’d beat him until his own squad mates couldn’t identify his body.

  Val threw her clothes back on and walked to where Sten stood on the corner. He didn’t bother turning to face her, his concentration consumed by whatever lay ahead.

  She folded her arms. “Now what?”

  “Follow me.”

  They walked down Second Street, Sten’s stride quick but not urgent, though she sensed an effort on his part to look casual so they wouldn’t draw attention.

  “About the mechanic, Cal Williams,” Val said behind Sten. “Did you search his house?”

  Sten glanced at her over his shoulder. “Yes.”

  “Did you confiscate his computer?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Can I have the hard drive?”

  “Negative.”

  “Can I at least look at it?”

  “Nope.”

  Fucking Sten. “You know it’ll take your super-competent police friends months before they get around to examining that hard drive. There could be evidence on his computer that he’s the one who uploaded the videos of Margaret and me onto Rayvit. Just give me the goddamn drive so I can take care of it myself.”

  He snickered. “And what’s your plan if you find your rapists?”

  She cringed at the term. Her rapists. At least he believed her. “Something like Stevenson, maybe with more castration.”

  “That’s hard to pull off on a dead person.”

  She stopped. “What?”

  Sten walked a few more steps, then doubled back when he noticed she wasn’t following him anymore. “Jeffrey Cartwright died in a tragic boating accident two days ago. Eliot Salier will soon perish in a freak house fire…or be mauled by a bear, I haven’t decided yet.”

  Val gawked at him for a moment. He’d already searched Cal’s computer and identified her attackers—and taken care of it, like he said he would. She should know better by now than to underestimate Sten. That dangerous kernel of affection for him grew a little larger. “Don’t kill Salier. I have a better idea.”

  “I thought it didn’t get any better than castration.” He glanced at his watch again. “Hold up your end of the bargain, and you can tell me all about it.” He resumed his march toward their destination.

  After they walked another block, Sten took a right onto Pike, then a quick left onto First. He stopped a few steps from the corner of First and Union, checked his watch, and shoved his hands in his pockets. He turned toward her like they were a couple chatting about where to get dinner.

  “That’s the Four Seasons Hotel.” He cocked his head an inch toward the building across the street. “See that black car parked out front?”

  Val looked past him at a shiny service sedan waiting at the curb. The car’s driver stood a foot away, ready to swoop forward and open the door for some wealthy bastard. “Yeah.”

  “In three minutes, a man in a blue Armani suit and orange silk tie will come out of the hotel and get into that car.” His gaze held hers. “Don’t let him get in the car.”

  Val raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Why do you need me for this?”

  “You have a special touch.”

  “You mean you want me to change something about the future, and this guy not getting into that car will do it.”

  Sten’s face hardened with a seriousness she’d never seen in him before. “We shall see.”

  Val fought back a sick feeling. “Do I need to keep him out of this car indefinitely?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if he gets into another car?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You now have two minutes.”

  “And what if I can’t keep him out of the car?”

  “Then you’ve failed to hold up your end of our bargain.”

  “Which means what? You’ll wish you could kill me really badly?”

  He cocked his head and smiled. “I don’t have to kill you to punish you.”

  A crystal-clear statement. Val walked past him to get a better look at the car and the driver. There were a lot of ways she could keep this mystery man from getting into his car. She could take the driver hostage. She could set the car on fire. She could shoot out the tires. She could shoot the mystery man. Unfortunately, those obvious options came with jail time. Subterfuge was her best bet.

  “One minute,” Sten said.

  Val crossed the street and walked toward the car, careful to look casual despite feeling the opposite, as Sten had done. She stopped ten feet from the car and pretended to check her phone, twirling her hair like a ditz for effect. From the corner of her eye, she saw a heavy man in a blue suit exit the building. Val held up her phone and pretended to pose for a selfie, mugging for the camera. Her palm-sized screen confirmed he wore an orange tie—her mystery man. A posse of half a dozen business types barking into cell phones surrounded him, including one severe-looking guy in a black sport coat—a bodyguard. Mystery man seemed quite the player.

  When they reached the sedan, Val sprang her trap. The bodyguard covered the mystery man’s rear. His eyes rolled off her as he scanned for threats. The driver opened the car door while the business posse talked over each other about deadlines and meetings. Still pretending as if she were enraptured by her phone, Val walked briskly toward the bodyguard—so briskly that when she slammed into him, she could believably ricochet off him and into the car, and “accidentally” shove her elbow through the side window.

  Val clutched her arm and wailed. “Oh my God!” Blood dripped onto the pavement. Damn, that hurt more than she thought it would.

  A moment of shock gripped everyone around her. The bodyguard looked confused, suspicious, and concerned at the same time. The business posse gave second-by-second plays to whoever was on the other end of their phones. Hotel staff ran forward. Mystery man stared at her.

  “My arm!” Val whined when a concierge rushed to her aid. She glared at the bodyguard. “He ran straight into me!”

  The bodyguard still looked confused. Over the concierge’s pleas for her to sit down, she heard the driver say into his cell, “We need a new car here now.”

  Mission accomplished.

  “Don’t touch!” She slapped the concierge’s hand away from her bleeding arm. “It super hurts! Owww—”

  The mystery man spoke with a strong English accent. “Valentine Shepherd?”

  Val froze.

  He met her gaze with wide, fearful eyes. His voice trembled. “Are you Valentine Shepherd?”

  Shit. How did he know her? Maybe he recognized her from the news last year? She didn’t remember ever seeing him before.

  As she looked at him, he took a step back. Panic gripped his face. In a blink he sprinted away from her, fleeing blindly into the busy street—right in front of a bus. It slammed into him and carried his body on its grill until it screeched to a halt amid horrified screams. Her jaw hanging open, Val stared stupidly at the twisted form of the mystery man as chaos reigned around her—a bloody chaos she’d created. She forced herself to look away, and her eyes wandered to Sten. As his eyes locked with hers, a wicked smile spread across his lips. He flashed her a subtle thumbs-up, then disa
ppeared in the crowd.

  Chapter Twenty

  It took Max a moment to realize the wetness he felt on his cheek was Toby licking his face. He turned his head and saw the dog on his bed, sitting next to him. Toby wasn’t supposed to be in there. He didn’t remember letting the dog in, but he didn’t remember much of anything besides throwing on one of his awful charity tuxedos, downing a generous handful of OxyContin pills, sitting at the edge of his bed, and staring at the walls for God knows how long. Max tried to push Toby away, but his arms felt weak and his hand slipped off the dog’s head in a clumsy caress. Toby wagged his tail.

  Abby walked out of the bathroom clad in a sapphire silk gown, gorgeous as usual. She smiled at him, her warmth for her fiancé recently renewed. After returning from the Mountain Lodge, he’d made love to her like he swore he would, but—God, he’d had to force himself to. He’d performed, feeling nothing for her, and he hated himself for it.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling all right for this?” Abby asked as she fiddled with an earring. “You don’t have to go.”

  Of course he had to go. Abby’s father was throwing this particular charity ball. Patrick disliked Max, thought he was a lazy playboy. Wasn’t completely convinced Max didn’t kill his father. Smart man. If Max didn’t go tonight, he’d never hear the end of it. Abby wouldn’t say anything to Max—not directly, she never did—but she’d hint at her disappointment, make sad faces his way, mention how she wished he’d get along better with her father. Her family’s approval was important to her. For that reason, she shouldn’t have dated Max to begin with, but he must have been too delectable an opportunity to pass up—wealthy, mysterious, good in bed, decent-looking, and all that other stuff women liked beyond reason. He guessed she thought she could make her family accept him, “reform the bad boy” or some shit.

  As if one day, maybe after Max saved Abby from a dastardly kidnapping plot or a humiliating social faux pas, Patrick would put his hand on Max’s shoulder and say with a proud grin, “Son, I was wrong about you. All this time I thought you murdered your father so you could burn through your inheritance with impunity, but now I see you’re worthy of my daughter. I’m glad to have you in the family—”

  “Max?”

  He blinked, his eyes adjusting from the wall to Abby. “What?”

  “I said are you sure you want to go tonight?”

  “Yes. I’m fine. Just took too much migraine medication.” He tapped his temple. “Medicine head. It’ll go away. You look good, V—very good.”

  Jesus, he almost called her Val. Exactly the person he didn’t want to think about. Nausea roiled in his stomach again as images of her naked, unconscious body being violated flashed through his mind. And she didn’t trust Max enough to tell him. She preferred to manipulate him into helping her than give him the truth of what her crusade against Lucien was actually about. After everything they’d shared, he thought some part of her must still care for him, but he’d thought wrong.

  He must really mean nothing to her.

  And Lucien…that disgusting, bottom-dwelling, fucking piece of shit rat bastard. Max would kill Christophe if he ever saw him again. First, he’d cut off Lucien’s balls, hands, and tongue, in that order, so the Frenchman could experience a fraction of the pain he’d caused Val and other women unlucky enough to cross his path. Then he’d burn Lucien alive—

  “Max.”

  “What?”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Huh?”

  She frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  He looked down and saw his hands balled into tight fists. Forcing them to unclench, he said, “Yeah. Some…fresh air will clear my head, I think.” He stood slowly, careful not to stumble in front of her.

  Abby’s furrowed brow betrayed her skepticism, but in the end, pleasing Daddy was more important. “Let’s go then.”

  He swallowed a desperate sigh, then patted Toby’s head. “Be good.”

  She drove on account of his medicine head.

  Then he was standing in a dark room with translucent white porcelain on the walls. The Seattle Art Museum, Max remembered. Raising money to restore a public section of the waterfront damaged in a storm last year. Something like that.

  “And he had such beautiful eyes,” a middle-aged woman with chandeliers for earrings was saying to him. “Like he could see right into your soul.” After a moment, he recognized her—Rhonda Gallagher. Widow of Nigel Gallagher, bank chairman. “Well, you would know a little something about beautiful eyes.” She winked at him.

  Why would Max know that? Was she talking about him?

  “I loved that horse. I really wish he could’ve sired more foals before we had to put him down.” Rhonda sighed and sipped from her champagne flute. “Oh well. They can’t live forever, I suppose. Did your family own horses?”

  “No.” Max turned away before she could launch into another inane topic. He spotted Abby in the center of the room, talking to a tall, stocky man with a close-cropped donut of hair—her father. At least Ginger wasn’t around. He’d jetted off to somewhere in East Asia, probably to partake of a little sex tourism. Yuck. Max grabbed a glass of wine off a tray as a waiter walked by. If he kept the glass to his lips, maybe he wouldn’t be expected to talk.

  “There you are,” Abby said, taking Max’s arm as he walked up and stood beside her. She smiled at him, radiating charisma for them both. “I was just telling Daddy about my plan to go back to school. Events at places like this make me remember why I got a degree in art history to begin with. So beautiful.”

  “Uh-huh.” Max sipped his wine.

  “I’m sure you’ll be successful at whatever you do, cupcake,” Patrick said. “Maxwell, what have you diversified into lately?”

  “I don’t diversify,” he muttered.

  “So you think your father’s money will last forever?”

  “Dad,” Abby said, feigning embarrassment for Max but really hoping he’d throw her father a bone and pretend to care about the latest financial bullshit.

  This was the part where Patrick offered Max a job—the better to exert control over his future son-in-law. “If you’re going to come to me hat-in-hand one day when your inheritance runs dry, you might as well earn my money. My Northern Asia line still has a management position open and…”

  Patrick’s voice became a droning noise. Max stared at the porcelain to the right of Patrick’s head, perfect discs of white suspended in black cases. These particular sets were Japanese, created during the Second World War. Written and baked into their glossy surfaces were names of noble family members who’d died in the conflict, and prayers for their souls—

  A boisterous laugh caught his attention. A laugh he recognized. He heard a snippet of conversation. “Huge! You would not believe it,” someone said. A Frenchman.

  “If you’re just sitting on your shares, you should—Ah!” Patrick jerked backward. Max realized he’d turned toward the conversation and let his wineglass tip sideways at the same time, spilling Merlot on Patrick’s expensive shoes. “What the hell are you—”

  Letting the wineglass fall, Max walked toward the voice, a smooth timbre with a slight French accent. A confident voice, a charming voice. A voice full of lies. With each step he took, his anger grew, bubbling up through the fog of opiates until all the white porcelain around him turned red. Max pushed through a crowd of bodies until he saw him.

  “I would have thought he was lying, but I saw it with my own eyes,” Lucien said to a captivated audience of almost a dozen people. “A baby Loch Ness monster, he called it, right on his wall.” His gaze wandered to Max and stayed there. “Ah, Max! Good to see you. You’re well traveled. You must have some interesting stories to tell of supposed magical beings, yes?”

  Max slugged Lucien in the face. Lucien dropped to the ground as the crowd gasped. Max sprung on top of him and channeled every ounce of energy he had to pound into oblivion the man who’d raped the woman he loved. Lucien threw up his arms but
his weak defense was no match for Max’s fury. His fists found Lucien’s head, chest, shoulders, arms. Every strike landed with the force of murderous rage.

  “Max, stop!” Abby’s voice floated to him over a cacophony of screaming and yelling. “Stop!”

  He ignored her. Monsters deserved to die. If Max had to kill Lucien with his bare hands, so be it.

  Then he was being dragged away. Lucien’s pulpy face receded, blood pouring down his chin from a smashed nose and cut above the eye. No! He was so close, so close to exacting justice for Val. Max struggled to free himself, thrashing his arms and legs, gnashing his teeth, growling like an animal.

  Rough hands flipped Max over and shoved his face into the floor. Security guards. They pried his arms behind his back. Handcuffs snapped around his wrists. Then they hauled him to his feet. Everyone was yelling at him, gawking at him, crying at him. Furious, shocked faces blurred past as the security guards dragged him away, his legs unsteady, lungs on fire, head spinning, unable to recall what he was even doing there before he saw the monster.

  * * *

  Max flinched when the camera’s flash went off. He blinked back green spots.

  “Turn to your right,” a police officer ordered. “Hold the sign at shoulder level.”

  Max turned to his right and pressed the stenciled sign with his name on it against his shoulder.

  “Hold it higher.”

  Max inched it up.

  “Lower.”

  He lowered it.

  “Too low.”

  Just take the fucking mugshot! he almost said, but gritted his teeth and did as he was told. He didn’t have the energy to fight anymore. He wanted it to be over, no matter what they did to him. After a round of photographs, they took his fingerprints. Max stared dully at the walls, not arguing, not reacting, not caring. A ragdoll in the process. Drunk and disorderly, one policeman said. That rich guy got away with killing his father, another whispered. They stared at him, then looked away when he noticed. They asked him if he wanted to make a statement; he said nothing. They threw him in a cell.