Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three

by Lawless, Alexi

  FEARLESS

  Part 3

  of the

  Complicated Creatures

  Series

  A novel

  ALEXI LAWLESS

  Copyright © 2016 by Alexi Lawless

  Kindle Edition

  VIVRANT Press Publishing

  www.vivrantpress.com

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language, and violent situations.

  It is intended for adult readers.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author and publishing house, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not be construed as real. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  The use of artist and song titles throughout this book are done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Part Three

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Goddess Rising: The Prequel

  About Alexi Lawless

  Thank You

  Notes

  PART THREE

  TU NE CEDE MALIS, SED CONTRA AUDENTIOR ITO

  —Virgil

  “Yield not to misfortunes, but advance all the more boldly against them.”

  Prologue

  December—Late Night

  Bloomsbury, London

  R O X A N N E

  The trick to tailing someone who can see you is to appear as unobtrusive and non-threatening as possible. It’s also helpful to be an attractive woman trailing a man. They’re either too confident to see you as a threat or too flattered to worry about what you really want.

  But Michael Lightner should have been suspicious. After all, his father had just blown up a couple blocks in the City of London and in the space of so many hours had become one of the most wanted men in the United Kingdom. Roxanne de Soto fully expected Michael to be a bit twitchy, especially with Scotland Yard and MI-5 closing in. She figured she was only ahead of them by an hour or two at most. Pretty soon they’d put two and two together concerning Michael’s whereabouts, and they’d come for him—if she didn’t get to him first.

  Lightner’s son stood on the stoop of his girlfriend’s sleek brick townhouse in a posh part of London. The young man was a dead ringer for his father—from the same lean frame to the high, angular cheekbones. His eyes were pale as dry ice, she could see that even from a distance as he glanced up and down the darkened street while he smoked a cigarette, spare hand tucked in his arm pit to ward off the cold. But Michael hadn’t yet cultivated the seasoned, hardened look of his father. He looked like a scared kid, really—trying to feel brave as he sucked in one long, last drag before flicking away the cigarette butt before lighting another.

  He’d been holed up at his girlfriend’s house since Lightner had done the unthinkable. Rox knew this because she’d been tracking him since she’d landed in London a few days ago. As Lucien Lightner’s only child, Michael seemed to be in regular communication with his father. That was, until daddy set off a car bomb in the City of London while he kidnapped and tortured Jack Roman and Mitchell Gartner. Rox had managed to save them both and even shot Lightner twice in the process, but that bastard had escaped from the little East End row house she’d held him while she’d gotten him patched up enough to deliver alive to Samantha.

  As soon as that bastard got away from her though, Rox had a feeling that he’d contact his son. After all, he had very few allies left in this city. Even thugs and lowlifes didn’t take kindly to having their hometown bombed by a local. But Rox figured the easiest way to know if Lightner had reached out was to confront Michael herself. This kid wouldn’t stand up to interrogation. She could tell that just by looking at him in his skinny jeans with his sixty-quid haircut, chain-smoking like he wished it was something stronger.

  Rox approached him slowly as snowflakes floated gently in the chilly night air. She was holding the leash of a cute little dog she’d stolen from a nearby garden after the owner let it out to do its business. Tonight she’d disguised herself as a twenty-something hipster with an auburn-haired wig, a slouchy knit cap and red Wayfarer eyeglasses that hid most of the bruising around her nose. Her ego hurt worse than her nose if she was being halfway honest. Roxanne still couldn’t believe Lightner had managed to get one in on her in his condition, but she’d covered the worst of it with heavy make-up and glasses she didn’t need. The net effect was that she passed for a cute, nerdy-chic girl with a damn cute dog. Wolf in sheep’s clothing…

  She let the little dog meander around the darkened sidewalk like a puffy dandelion, distracted by the new sites and smells, not making too much of a fuss despite being hostage to a stranger. As she got within a few yards of Michael, she watched him put out his cigarette with the grind of his tennis shoe as he looked her over, his gaze cautious and speculative.

  Rox feigned a bashful smile. “Mind if I bum one of those?” she called out softly, hesitantly, like she was letting him in on a secret.

  He cocked his head, eyes running over her puffy jacket, black leggings and motorcycle boots before dropping to the dog.

  “I’m supposed to have quit,” she confided with a sheepish look. “But honestly, I’m just jonesing so bad for a cigarette, you have no idea.”

  He shrugged, muttering, “Sure. Why not?” He reached into his coat pocket for his cigarettes.

  Rox stepped forward, accepting the proffered smoke, smiling gratefully.

  “You’re American,” he stated matter-of-factly, his voice not quite the deep, slicing baritone of his father’s.

  “Yep, I am,” she said with a nod, blowing the smoke out as the dog peed on a nearby lamp post. “I’m here studying design,” she lied before gesturing to the cigarette. “Thanks for this. You’re a lifesaver. My boyfriend’s been on my ass to quit. It’s just hard, you know? When you like something so much,” she added with a smile.

  Michael nodded, albeit distractedly. “My bird’s on me about it too.” He glanced up and down the street again, anxious.

  The wolf’s right in front of you, she thought as she took another drag before stepping back to tie the dog’s leash to the lamp post. Rox checked the tag on the collar. Name and address on a metal disc. Perfect. The little fluffball would be found soon enough and taken home. She stood slow
ly, cigarette in one hand while she shoved the other deep inside her jacket pocket, wrapping around the polymer grip of a sub-compact Glock 26.

  Michael’s phone made a sound, and he looked down, clicking on the screen to read a message.

  “I’ve got to dash,” he said without looking up. He flicked the lit cigarette onto the sidewalk before pulling out his car keys.

  Rox nodded understandingly. “Thanks for the ciggy,” she said with a little wave.

  Just then, she heard the distant sound of sirens on approach, the hairs raising on the back of her neck. Michael paused for a moment, looking like a hunted man as he stepped off the curve and jogged to a dark Range Rover. He’d just unlocked the door and started to climb in when Rox opened the passenger door and slid into the seat beside him.

  “What the hell—?” he began.

  “Hear those sirens, Michael?” Rox leaned over to press the ignition to his car. “They’ve figured out where you are, man. They’re coming for you right now.”

  “Who the hell are you?” he spat out, eyes narrowing as she calmly pulled her gun out, keeping it low so they looked like a normal couple in a car, talking.

  “I’m not MI-5 or the cops—that’s all you should care about.” She heard the sirens blaring louder. She figured they were less than forty seconds out at this point. “Time to go, Michael. Chop chop.”

  Tensed, he glanced in his rearview mirror, trying to decide which was the lesser of the two evils. Go with the chick holding a gun or wait to get arrested and thrown in a hole. “What the fuck do you want?” he asked, looking at her again.

  “Your father,” she answered. “You have less than thirty seconds to make a move, Michael.” She could hear the frantic, high-speed pitch of the wah-wah-wah sirens closing in. It reminded her of the devastation Lightner had left in his wake—the scent of soot, ash, and scorched flesh. It also made her head throb harder.

  His gaze darted from the gun to her face to the rearview mirror, then back again. “Sod it,” he said under his breath, cutting the wheel so he could move out of the parking space. He drove fast, but not too fast in the slushy streets, his eyes flicking from her to the rearview and side view mirrors in rapid succession as he tried to calculate a way out. They were two blocks away when the police cars descended on the house they’d just left, probably scaring the shit out of the poor little dog she’d left tied to the lamp post.

  “Well, that was close,” Rox drawled.

  “Where am I headed?” he asked, voice clipped and tight.

  “Where were you headed when you decided to leave?”

  “Nowhere,” he lied. It struck her then that despite his looks, Michael didn’t hold a candle to his father. Lightner was smooth as silk and accomplished in deception. Cocky and insolent. This kid had the lying skills of an average joe and nowhere near the confidence.

  Rox leaned against the door as she kept the Glock trained on him, just out of view. “So here’s the deal: I don’t want you. It’s your dad I’m after. If you tell me what you know, you walk away unharmed. If you jerk me around and waste my time, I’ll blow out your knee caps, comprendes?”

  Michael’s hands tightened around the wheel. “What do you want with my father?”

  “He owes me a bit of money,” she lied. “I mean to get it before he splits town for good. Girl’s gotta eat, you know?”

  He shot her an uncertain look. “And if I stop this instant?”

  “I could shoot you in the nuts instead,” she answered with a little shrug. “But I’d rather not. You seem like a nice kid. I just want my money before MI-5 get ahold of your dad.”

  “I have plenty of money—just take the duffle in the boot,” he offered anxiously, eyeing the Glock.

  Rox lifted her brows. “You keep a bag full of cash in the trunk of your car, Michael?”

  “You can take it. Just let me go.”

  She considered him. “What else is in the bag, Michael?”

  He kept driving, eyes still flicking at the mirrors, looking for flashing lights.

  “The bag, Michael,” Rox repeated patiently. “What’s in it besides cash?”

  “Passports.” He wiped a hand down his face, his fingers were shaking now.

  Rox whistled. “You planning a getaway?”

  “They’re for my dad.”

  “How’d you get it so fast? The bombing just happened.”

  “He had me open a safe deposit box at the Bank of London. I didn’t even know he’d opened one in my name there. I had nothing to do with the bomb,” he insisted, his voice rising as real panic set in. “I was in class at uni when it happened—ask anyone.”

  Rox kept the gun trained on him. “Where did your father tell you to meet him?”

  Michael’s eyes shifted away, his mouth compressing into a thin line. He pulled the Range Rover into a dark side street before parking it and turning to her. “Look, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but just fucking take the cash and go.”

  Rox reached into her jacket pocket with her free hand and popped a switchblade open so fast, Michael only caught the glint of steel in the dim light before he felt the stiletto sink into his thigh, hard and fast—twice in quick succession.

  “Holy FUCK!” he shouted, gripping his leg, dark red blood already blooming across his jeans.

  Rox turned off the ignition and pulled back, but not before Michael tried to take a swipe at her. She deftly parried his sloppy swing and sliced a three-inch ribbon across his cheekbone as punishment. The kid gaped at her in shock, one bloody hand gripping his leg, the other holding his damaged face, blood pouring through his fingers in rivulets.

  “Don’t make me hurt you more, cabrón,” she hissed. “Where did your father ask you to meet him?”

  The silence was tense, punctuated by Michael’s panicked panting.

  Rox held up the bloody blade in one hand, the Glock in the other. “You want the blade or the bullet?” she asked menacingly. “Five, four, three, two—”

  “Port of Tilbury in Essex,” he blurted, in pain and in peril.

  “Specifically where at the Port?” Rox replied calmly.

  “I don’t know,” he shook his head vehemently. “Th—there’s a terminal there,” Michael stuttered. “He said he’d text me the details.”

  “Unlock your phone and place it on the dash. Slowly.”

  He fumbled with his pocket, pulling out a sleek phone. He tried and failed to open it a couple times, blood slicking across the screen, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped the phone twice before he slid it across the console.

  “Now your keys.”

  He removed the car keys from the ignition and placed them next to the phone. Rox opened the door, swiping the keys and phone in one quick move as she slid out of the SUV. She checked his messages as she walked around to the back of the truck. There were two black ballistic nylon duffels situated in the back. She opened one, found nothing but clothes and personal items. The second one was the money bag. Rox guessed that she was looking at about a million in tightly-rolled Euro notes, pound sterling and a variety of other currencies. She saw a couple 9mm Berettas, a few boxes of .45 ACP full metal jackets, and a cache of passports, each bearing different versions of Lightner’s photo. Basically, a solid go-bag—probably one of a few he had stashed around the city.

  Rox looked up at Lightner’s son, who sat still and silent in the front, watching her from the rearview as he gripped the cut on his face with bloody fingers.

  “You notice there are no passports in here for you, Michael?” she asked him.

  He said nothing, eyes wide and scared.

  “Don’t feel too bad about this, man,” she continued as she zipped up the bag and slid it over her shoulder. “Your asshole father was always planning on leaving you behind to deal with the mess he made.”

  And with that, she shut the trunk door, and tossed the keys into the gutter. Rox stepped out onto the main street, lifting her arm to hail the first cab she saw.

  “Where to, m
iss?” the cabbie asked, his Cockney accent thick and friendly.

  “Port of Tilbury.” She lifted a wad of pound notes from the bag, catching his eyes. “There’s a bonus in there for you if you can get me there in under thirty minutes.”

  The cabbie licked his lips. “Sure thing, miss.”

  Chapter 1

  December—Late Night

  Hotel Atlantic Kempinski, Hamburg, Germany

  J A C K

  Jack lay in the pristine white bedding of the hotel suite, sweating like a madman, aches and chills coursing through him as his gut clenched like it was trapped in a metal vice. He’d been vomiting earlier, incessantly, it seemed, now that he’d passed into the first thirty-six hours of full withdrawal, but now there was nothing in his stomach to expel except bile. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten; couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt hungry enough to try.

  He trembled and shook, wrapped in his fever and torment. How had everything gone so wrong? So pear-shaped in a matter of weeks? First, Mitch Gartner, his best friend and business partner, getting shot by Lightner in London just a couple days ago, and now Samantha sitting at death’s door not a few miles away from him as he lay inert and half-delirious. Jack twisted and writhed as another wave of engulfing pain made his muscles vibrate. He felt trapped, pinned down by the agony and the longing for some kind of relief. God, anything. Anything—

  Jack could have some bent doctor here in Hamburg prescribe him Sub Oxone or methadone. He could have come off the opioids the easy way—without the sweating and the chills, the convulsions and the mania. Money could buy almost any comfort, after all. But Jack needed the pain. He wanted the punishment. He’d have to hold on to how this felt, recall the agony, like trying to claw his way out of a steel trap—because it was only by flying this close to the flame would Jack be reminded of the true meaning of fallibility.

  He’d become too arrogant, fraught with carelessness. He’d hurt and disappointed the people he loved most in the world because he hadn’t kept his shit together when the inevitable difficulties had arisen. He’d spun out, obsessed with his anger and jealousy, unable to protect her or even defend himself from his own self-destructive passions. Jack had gotten too far away from reality, coming off the greatest high of his life—Samantha, his new addiction … only to disintegrate the moment he’d realized he’d been cut off from her. So now he needed this pain, to return to some semblance of balance. The pendulum had begun its inevitable swing, and he had to go with it. Just like before—