Find Me (Corrupted Hearts Book 3)

by Tiffany Snow

  “Zane has lots of contacts in very high places. Someone who has a beef with the president, me, and Coop has to have talked to somebody. I’d like to know who it is before he tries again. Zane’s the best, and quickest, bet.”

  “How do you know Zane?”

  He hesitated, “Let’s just say that when I left the service, I wasn’t in a Good Place.” He used air quotes for Good Place.

  That wasn’t an idiom I was familiar with. I shook my head, confused. “What do you mean? What place were you trying to get to?”

  “I don’t mean an actual location—”

  “But you said place,” I interrupted.

  “I know, but I meant . . . mentally.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “That mission I told you about,” he said, leaning back against the counter, “was my last. I got out. But I was . . . messed up. I had no job, so I was approached by PFG. I worked for them for a few years.”

  “What did you do for Zane?” The firm’s name was “security,” so I assumed he’d been a bodyguard or consultant or something.

  “Paid assassin.”

  I stared at him. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard you. I thought you said ‘assassin’?”

  “That’s right.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze narrowing as he watched my reaction.

  Clark had killed people before. I knew that. But I’d also thought he’d done it in the name of duty. He’d been dealing in information when I’d first met him. Dangerous information, yes, but still things that were beneficial to the country. For him to suddenly tell me that he’d killed people for money . . . I had to sit down. Luckily, the kitchen table was there, and I yanked out a chair to collapse into.

  “You mean . . . you’re a bad guy?” I asked. It seemed unreal. “But . . . you saved me. Rescued me.”

  Clark was suddenly there, crouching down in front of me. “I don’t do it anymore,” he said. “And I wish now I never had. But . . . I was dead inside back then. I’m not trying to excuse it or make it sound like it was okay. It wasn’t—”

  “Then what are you trying to make it sound like?” I interrupted, failing to keep the anger from my voice. “Why would you do that?”

  His lips thinned. “I’ve never told anyone about this part of my past,” he said. “I don’t know why I thought maybe you . . . Never mind.” He stood and grabbed his jacket, shrugging into it. “I’d better go.”

  I jumped to my feet and planted myself squarely in front of him. “No way. Not alone.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Mack. Step aside.”

  Clark hadn’t called me Mack in a while. I wasn’t fond of the nickname, and the way his voice had sounded when he’d called me baby this morning flitted through my head. I pushed the random thoughts away.

  “Don’t ever insult my intelligence,” I said, poking him in the chest with a finger. “And I mean it. You’re not going without me.”

  “And how do you propose to make me take you along?” The mask was back in place, hiding the vulnerability he’d let me see earlier. I felt a pang of regret for not tempering my reaction better. I’d just been so shocked.

  “I’m your partner. You showed up here when you were hurt. You owe it to me to let me come along.” I didn’t know how far that would get me, so I added, “Besides, you think this Zane is just going to tell you what you want to know? Won’t he want something in return?”

  Clark studied me, his expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said at last.

  “And what do you have to trade?”

  “I used to do a job for Zane. I can do it again.”

  Horrified, I shook my head. “No. Absolutely not. No way.”

  “I don’t have any other choice,” he bit out. “I don’t want to just sit around being a walking target.” He paused, reaching out to drape my long ponytail on my shoulder. “Or risk you being caught in the cross fire.”

  “I already am.” I reached into my basket of newfound idioms. “A dime a dozen.” Wait, that didn’t sound right.

  Clark frowned. “What?”

  “A penny saved is a penny earned?” I tried. No, that wasn’t right either. “Something about money.” It was so frustrating when things didn’t come out of my mouth right.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound?” Clark said.

  “Yes! That’s the one.” What were we talking about again? “Yes, so I’m coming with you. Two heads are better than one.” I smiled smugly. I knew I’d gotten that one right. “We’ll figure something out.” I held my breath. I couldn’t let him go without me. What if someone took another shot at him? Next time he might not be so lucky.

  “Fine,” he said, snapping out the word. “But you have to do what I say, understood? These people don’t fuck around.”

  I was already nodding. “Got it.”

  He let out a sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “I know I’m gonna regret this.”

  Choosing to ignore his less-than-complimentary prediction, I put on my jacket and grabbed my backpack and keys. “We’re taking my car, though,” I said. “I’m not riding on the back of the organ donor again.”

  He held out his hand. “Deal. But I’m driving.”

  I hesitated, but the look in his eye said he wasn’t going to budge on this point, so I handed them over. “Be careful,” I warned him. “She’s my baby.”

  “She’s a car,” he said. “Not a person.”

  “That’s your opinion. And don’t say that where she can hear you.”

  He rolled his eyes but didn’t disparage my Mustang further as we went outside and I locked the door behind me. Mia had retrieved my car from Jackson’s, thank goodness, though I’d tried not to think too deeply about her barely sixteen-year-old-self driving it.

  Clark got in and immediately banged his knees on the steering column. He cursed and I winced.

  “Be careful,” I said again.

  “How do you even drive this?” he groused, moving the seat back a good foot. “Can you see over the steering wheel?”

  “Of course I can,” I retorted, then added, “Mostly.”

  His lips twitched, but he didn’t complain any more as he finished adjusting the seat and mirrors. Then we were off. To my surprise, he swung into a fast-food drive-thru.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Eating. Aren’t you hungry?”

  I was already shaking my head. “No. Absolutely not. You will not be eating in my car.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I never joke, especially about my car. I refuse to have fossilized french fries atrophying between the seats, or sticky Coke residue coating the cup holders. No. No food.”

  Clark heaved a sigh of long-suffering and pulled into a parking spot.

  “I don’t go inside fast-food restaurants either,” I added.

  He rested his forehead against the top of the steering wheel. An odd thing to do, but maybe his shoulder was hurting him.

  “I’m going to regret asking this, but why?” His voice was muffled from the way he was sitting.

  “Because of the noxious odor of oil frying,” I said. “It permeates everything. Sit inside there for fifteen minutes and we’ll both smell like we pulled an eight-hour shift. It ruins my appetite.”

  “So why don’t you tell me where is an acceptable venue for you to eat this morning?”

  “I thought you were in a big hurry to get to PFG?” I asked. “Why are you worried about eating?”

  “Soldier rules,” he said, lifting his head. “Never skip an opportunity to eat or sleep, because you don’t know when you’ll get the next chance for either. Plus, both of us were hurt yesterday. We need the nutrition. I can’t go in anywhere and you won’t let us eat in the car. What’s your solution?”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it again. He was right. We couldn’t take the chance of someone recognizing him by going into an actual restaurant. So as much as I hated it, I gritted my teeth and said, “Fine. We can eat in the
car. But don’t spill anything.”

  “I’m not a toddler,” he retorted, backing out of the space.

  In the interest of keeping the peace, I refrained from pointing out that his temper was coming close to tantrum stage.

  He ordered for us through the fuzzy speaker. The worker’s tinny voice came back, repeating everything, then asked, “Do you want fries with that?”

  I said nothing, just glared. Clark glanced my way. “Uh, no thanks. Not this time.” He gave me a totally fake, thin-lipped smile. “Happy?” he asked.

  I thought it was rhetorical, so I didn’t reply with more than a harrumph.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked. He inched the car forward in line.

  I wasn’t sure if he meant physically or emotionally, but the former was easiest to answer. “Sore. I popped a couple of ibuprofen to take the edge off. My wrist is really tender and swollen.”

  “And Coop?” The name seemed forced, as was the light tone with which he said it.

  “Should be released today,” I said, glancing away. An awkward silence fell.

  “Where’s your ring?” he asked.

  “I . . . uh . . . I didn’t want to risk losing it,” I lied. The truth was, my conscience wouldn’t let me wear it. “It’s expensive.”

  The harried worker at the drive-thru window passed us two bags and two large drinks. Clark pulled away as I dug through the bags. I grimaced. I could already tell the smell was overtaking the leather aroma of the interior. Yuck.

  I insisted he pull over and not drive while eating, which he did after much huffing and rolling of his eyes. Only then did I hand him his burgers. He devoured one then the other in short order, then went to put his hands on the steering wheel . . . and stopped.

  I was holding a napkin an inch from his nose.

  “Wipe your greasy paws,” I demanded.

  I popped open the glove box while he did as he was told, then handed him a wet wipe. “Now use this.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you might be just a few fries short of a Happy Meal?” he asked.

  “To quote Sheldon, ‘I’m not crazy. My mom had me tested.’”

  That startled a short laugh from him, then I finally allowed him to drive the car again while I unwrapped my food. I ate daintily, leaning over the paper bag in case anything dripped from my turkey-club wrap.

  I made him pull off at a gas station to dispose of the trash as soon as I’d finished. I didn’t want the smell in my car any longer than absolutely necessary. I also ran inside and bought a new air freshener, which I hung from the rearview mirror.

  Clark watched me without comment. I inhaled deeply.

  “Mmmm. Much better,” I said happily.

  “You know, this all could’ve been avoided if you’d just cooked this morning,” he said, pulling back onto the highway.

  I glanced at him. His profile was sharply outlined against the sunshine on display outside his window. He’d put on sunglasses, hiding his eyes, and his hair was mussed from running his fingers through it. Not for the first time did I wonder how in the world I ever had bought the lie that he “worked in HR.” He no more looked like he worked in HR than I was a runway model.

  “Sunday is grocery-shopping day,” I said. “The only thing I had to cook was grilled cheese and pizza rolls.”

  “Breakfast of champions,” he deadpanned.

  Neither of us spoke about the arguments we’d had, but my guilt ate at me as he drove, until I couldn’t hold my silence.

  “Clark, I want to say that I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” His voice was flat. Not exactly rolling out the welcome mat for my apology.

  “You told me something very personal, and I reacted . . . badly.” To put it mildly.

  “You reacted like a normal person,” he said. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on you.”

  “But I’m not a normal person.”

  “Don’t say that.” He spoke so harshly that I was momentarily silenced. “I’ve told you before,” he continued, “you’re better than normal. You’re . . . one of a kind.”

  “So are factory rejects.” I didn’t say it in a bad way. It was a fact.

  “You’re not a fucking reject,” he snapped. “You’re like one of those eggs.”

  “A what?”

  “You know.” He waved his hand in the air. “The ridiculously expensive eggs made in Russia or whatever.”

  “Fabergé?”

  “Yeah. Those. You’re like one of those.”

  I was at a loss as to how to respond, other than “Thank you, Clark. That’s an . . . original compliment.” I frowned. “It was a compliment, right?”

  He rolled his eyes. “No. Comparing you to priceless, one-of-a-kind works of art was an insult.”

  I considered. “Sarcasm?”

  He shot me a look.

  Yep. Sarcasm.

  We arrived at PFG a short while later. Clark pulled up to an intercom in front of a formidable black gate.

  The intercom burst into life as Clark rolled down the window. The sun had disappeared now and clouds were rolling in.

  “State your name and business,” the disembodied voice said.

  “You know my name, and my business is private. I’ll discuss it with Zane, and him only.”

  There was a length of silence that was just starting to make me uncomfortable when the voice returned.

  “Stay on the path. Do not deviate. Any deviation will be seen as a provocation and met with lethal force.”

  Okay, then.

  “They aren’t exactly welcoming you with open arms,” I said as the gate began to swing ponderously open. “I feel like we’re about to land on Bespin.”

  “A Star Wars reference,” Clark said. “I got that one.”

  “Then you know that Vader could be waiting for us,” I said.

  “What’s waiting for us is way worse than Vader,” he replied, which didn’t make me feel one bit better.

  9

  I was conscious this time, and could appreciate the imposing three-story building that loomed in front of us. Made of stone, it had two-story columns that spanned the sprawling front facade. Cars with dark-tinted windows appeared in front and behind us as Clark drove.

  “Yeah, this isn’t creepy at all,” I muttered.

  “These aren’t people to fuck with,” he replied. “I wouldn’t be here if I knew of anyone else who might know what I need to know.”

  “How did you get out?” I asked. “I can’t imagine they’d just let you retire with a nice pen as a farewell gift.”

  He snorted a laugh. “Yeah, the retirement plans here aren’t worth writing home about.”

  “So how did you leave?”

  “Remind me and I’ll tell you sometime,” he said, pulling to a halt in front of the behemoth of a headquarters.

  Our doors were opened simultaneously as the engine died. I glanced at Clark, but he was getting out of the car. I followed his example.

  Four serious-looking men with serious-looking weapons surrounded us. A fifth man, unarmed, stepped forward. He was massive and bald, immediately making me think of The Rock, and I shrank backward from his intimidating scowl.

  “Ease up, Terry,” Clark said, sliding an arm around my waist and pulling me protectively closer to him. “You’re scaring my girl.”

  “It’s Slade, not Terry,” not-Terry said. Clark laughed.

  “You make them call you that? Seriously? Someone’s overcompensating . . .” His singsong rejoinder only made not-Terry look pissed off and scarier.

  “What do you want, Slattery? You know you’re not welcome here.”

  Clark’s smirk disappeared. “I said I’d speak to Zane. Not his flunkies. I have something he wants.”

  I almost turned to look at Clark but stopped myself in time. Of course. This was his bluff. Get us in to see Zane with the promise of something, then figure out what that something was later.

  Not-Terry’s jaw worked for a minute, then he motioned curtly to the guar
ds. “Fine,” he bit out. “Follow me.”

  Clark kept me close by his side as we walked, and I felt eyes boring a hole into my back. We were led through a massive wooden door at least twelve feet tall. I had the impression we were entering a facility not unlike NORAD, especially when I glimpsed the discreet sensors built inside the frame.

  The foyer was elegant without being ostentatious. A ceramic-tiled floor led to a curved staircase, and a chandelier hung high above us. Everything was done in shades of grays—pale-dove gray all the way to gunmetal-steel gray. It was a clean, modern look, and definitely masculine.

  Two of the guards melted away, leaving us with two remaining and . . . Slade. One of them covered us with his weapon while the other did a patdown. He removed two handguns from Clark as well as a knife from his ankle that I had no idea he carried.

  The patdown of me was pretty quick and efficient. I nervously pushed my glasses back up my nose as the guard stepped back. “She’s clean,” he said.

  Slade glanced at me with a sneer. “Not your usual type,” he said to Clark. “You sure it’s even a girl?”

  The comment was surprisingly catty coming from a man, not to mention a man of his size, but before I could respond, Clark did. Snarling, he leaped at him, but the guards were quick, grabbing his arms and holding him back. Slade gave a low laugh.

  “Now who’s overcompensating?” he sneered.

  “You sound like a Mean Girl,” I snapped at the guy. “Are you going to start a hashtag now? Though I have to admit, your boobs are bigger than mine.”

  His smirk disappeared as Clark snorted, freeing himself from the guards. “No offense, Terry, but you’re definitely not my type.”

  He was scowling now and I didn’t want to push our luck, so I shoved my elbow into Clark’s side. He responded by slinging his arm over my shoulders.

  “You were taking us to Zane,” he said, gesturing toward the stairs.

  Slade looked like he’d like to take us somewhere, all right, and we probably wouldn’t like it one little bit. But instead, he headed up the winding staircase. Clark had me go in front of him, the guards following us.

  I was scared the deeper we went into the fortress. The farther we were in, the farther we’d have to go to get out. I only hoped we wouldn’t be fighting our way out.