Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three

by Lawless, Alexi

  “Le vin est le professeur du goût, le libérateur de l’esprit et l’illuminateur de l’intelligence,” he replied smoothly, plucking the glass from her fingers and taking a sip himself.

  It was an intimate move, and she rather liked it.

  “The extent of my French is how to say I don’t speak French,” she told him.

  “It’s a quote from the poet, Paul Claudel,” he told her, holding the empty glass out. “It means, ‘Wine teaches taste, frees the spirit, and illuminates ones intelligence.’”

  “Sounds about right,” she agreed, pouring another measure from the bottle of Château Latour sitting on the table. He followed her with his eyes as she set the bottle back down next to her gun, a compact and very easy-to-conceal Walther CCP 9mm she’d picked up earlier in the day from a guy who’d tried and failed to mug her. Poor bastard. Now he was laid up with a broken arm and she had a shiny new toy.

  Avi slowly reached into his suit jacket, pulling a standard-issue Mossad .22 LRS pistol from the holster. He laid his gun down on the coffee table, next to hers. It was a striking visual: two compact up-close-and-very-personal lethal weapons, sitting side-by-side next to a thousand-dollar bottle of wine. Another strangely intimate move Rox liked more than she cared to admit.

  Avi sat back on the sofa, stretching his arm across the back as she sipped the wine, his fingers twining in the tips of the dark auburn tresses of her wig. Rox was dressed rather dramatically this evening. She had on black leather pants and a lacy black top with peekaboo glimpses at the La Perla lingerie she wore underneath. Her makeup was sultry, eyes lined dark with kohl, her lips painted a deep shade of red. Rox told herself she hadn’t dressed for him—that it was just another disguise among hundreds—but the truth was, she kind of wanted to figure out what his type was, and she was wondering what he’d like.

  “You look like a dominatrix tonight,” he murmured, the side of his mouth pulling up slowly.

  “Oh, yeah? I was going for Sunday School teacher.”

  Laughter erupted from him, deep and amused. “In what? The Church of Jezebel?”

  “Avi, everything I like is either illegal, immoral, addictive, expensive, or impossible. You could say the followers of Jezebel are my kind of people,” she replied with a wink, enjoying the banter.

  “That’s not quite right though. You’re no Jezebel, neshama.” Avi slid a hand over her arm, his hand warm through the lace. “You’re Lilith.”

  Rox smiled quizzically. “Is this the hooker part of the story where I say, ‘I’ll be whoever you want me to be?’”

  He took the wine back, sipping slowly. “Lilith was a shapeshifter. The first wife of Adam according to Jewish mythology,” he explained in that rich, deep baritone of his. “Lilith was banished from Eden because she refused to be subservient to him.”

  That observation struck too close to home. Much too close. Rox kept very still.

  “I was never a very good Catholic, but I’m pretty sure the woman who popped Adam’s cherry was Eve,” she drawled.

  “Some believe Eve was his second wife,” Avi continued, his expression inscrutable. “Fashioned from his rib to ensure her obedience. I may not be a good Jew or a good man for that matter, but even I know you don’t fuck for money.” He surprised her by pushing a tendril of hair back from her heavily made-up face. She felt the callouses on his fingertips, the roughness of as he brushed her skin gently. “If you allow anyone near you, neshama, it’s for pleasure. You do this because you like it. The hunt excites you,” he observed. “You like the prospect of taking a man down. Seduction is just part of the game for you.”

  Oh, he was good. Too good. They’d only known each other a short time, and he already had her number. That could be either very good or very, very bad for her. Time to get back to business.

  “So how was your day at work, honey?” she asked, redirecting.

  “Productive.” Avi reached for the case he’d been carrying when he came home. He took out what looked like blueprints and spread them out on the coffee table. “These are floor plans for the Israel Museum in Jerusalem. There’s a party in honor of the Dead Sea Scrolls exhibit in a couple days. Uzi Dichter will be there. This will be the best place to approach him.”

  “And what? Kidnap him and beat it out of him? Or do you want to try to outbid Lightner if he already has made contact?”

  Avi shrugged. “I’m for the former, but whatever the case, I won’t be able to go inside with you. The place will be full of IDF leaders, Mossad agents, politicians—men who know me and will question my reason for being there. I’ll be more a hindrance than a help to you if I’m visible.”

  Rox took the file he handed her. It was background he’d collected on Dichter. Avi went to work translating the Hebrew into English on the floor plan with a fine Cross pen as she read the file. They shared the wine, each taking sips from the same glass as they discussed their plan of attack.

  “You won’t need to be inside,” Rox told him.

  Avi glanced at her. “Why?”

  “We could tie him up for days, but Dichter won’t break that way. He was a naval commando in the Shayetet 13 in the nineties. Aren’t you Israeli special-forces guys supposed to be the hardest motherfuckers on the planet?”

  He smiled. “What do you think?”

  “Don’t be coy, querido,” she chided. “We need another pain point to get Dichter to play ball—something personal.” Rox pointed at a document listing family members. “He has a seven-year-old daughter.”

  Avi frowned.

  “Where is this address?” she asked, gesturing toward the address listed on the school form for his daughter.

  “It’s Dichter’s home in French Hill near the Mount Scopus campus of the university.”

  “Perfect.” Rox nodded. “Cinderella goes to the ball and corners the arms dealer while you go to his house and kidnap his daughter.”

  An immediate look of censure crossed his features. “I won’t harm her, neshama.”

  “Christ, don’t tell me you’re an international espionage operative with a heart.” Rox rolled her eyes.

  “I have a daughter.”

  That’s right, he did. Rox recalled that from the file she’d put together for Sam months ago.

  “You were married?” she asked, not sure why that bothered her.

  “A young man’s infatuation,” he replied with a shrug. “I married her when she became pregnant. We divorced a year after our daughter was born. They live in New York now, but then, you probably know that, don’t you?”

  She didn’t bother denying it. “Do you have a picture?”

  Avi pulled out his phone, thumbing through it. He showed her a picture of a beautiful young girl with dark hair and his arresting hazel eyes.

  “Tell me, Avi: What’s the worst thing a father can imagine happening to his little girl?” Rox asked as she admired his daughter.

  A rhetorical question. She knew the answer.

  So did he.

  “I won’t harm Dichter’s daughter,” he reiterated, his voice hard.

  Rox smiled slowly. “If we do it my way, you won’t have to.”

  He frowned. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Easy,” she shrugged lightly. “Even the Devil loves his kids.”

  *

  March—Mid-Morning

  Chicago, Illinois

  J A C K

  Jack worked the heavy leather punching bag, striking out in a lightning fast combination of jabs, crosses, uppercuts, and hooks. Sweat poured down his face and chest as he worked out, winding his way around the bag, feinting, punching, and ducking.

  The gym air felt cool from the open windows and garage doors, but the potent scent of leather and sweat cut with the coppery scent of blood filled the air. Jack took comfort in the scent, blocking out the noise surrounding him as he stayed inside the zone, his attention solely-focused on what was in front of him. Gone was the clang of barbells, the grunts of fighters trading shots in the ring, the music pumping in the
background. He’d been there an hour already, boxing with one of his trainers before doing a round of weights, but he always liked to finish with the bag, working off the adrenaline, slaking the excess energy that made him feel restless and agitated throughout the day.

  He’d taken to working out in the morning and the evening, enduring hard, punishing sessions that left him feeling fatigued and drowsy. Jack found that the more he fought, the less he dreamed. These days, though, sleep came a little more easily, his nighttime still dominated by quixotic apparitions of Samantha—vestiges of their time together, illusions of intimacy that made him feel lonely and empty and aching in the morning, like he’d been robbed of her all over again.

  And so he fought. Every day, he did battle with his demons, his addiction, his loneliness, his anger, his frustration, his doubt. Fighting kept him afloat, present in the moment, focused. Jack could manage as long as he stayed in the here and now, lest his regrets about the past or his worries about the future swallow him whole.

  Lee Talon stepped up beside him, wearing dark gym clothes. He gripped the heavy leather bag, stilling it as Jack worked his combinations. He’d seen Talon a few times at the gym since he’d come out of rehab, but their conversations had always been casual. Talon had even offered to spar with him a couple times.

  “You need a fight, Jack?” he asked. “I heard Manny talking to some of the amateur boxers about setting something up.”

  Jack didn’t look up as he punched hard and fast. Jab-jab, cross, hook, uppercut.

  “I thought he was too afraid Samantha would find out.”

  “While the cat’s away, the mice will play,” Talon said with a shrug. “Besides, I’d put good money on you beating the living shit out of anyone they put in front of you. How’s sobriety treating you?”

  Jack shot him a dark look. “Never been better,” he lied. Cross, hook, cross. “Where’s Rush?” he asked. “Haven’t seen him around.”

  Now it was Talon’s turn to look unhappy. “He’s still in London.” Talon frowned. “You know we’ve worked together my entire adult career—first in the SEALs and then for Sam and Carey. It’s weird he’s not around anymore.”

  “Yeah, I feel that way about Mitch too,” Jack admitted, unleashing a series of speed punches. Mitch had been Jack’s best friend and business partner for so long, he felt like a second brother. Jack had isolated himself from his old acquaintances, not wanting to be tempted. But without Samantha in his life or Mitch in the office, he felt like an ascetic. If it hadn’t been for social interaction at the gym or dinners with Jaime and Maddie, he’d have become a full-on hermit by now.

  No wonder he wanted to beat the shit out of something.

  “How’s the Leviathan integration going?” Talon asked.

  Jack paused to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.

  “It’s good. We’re almost entirely focused on property security now.”

  Talon looked impressed. “So no more K&R?”

  “No.” Jack shook his head. “That’s all Lennox Chase now. Mitch even let Michaelson and Henri recruit over some more Leviathan guys. You should be all stocked up on talent now.”

  Talon whistled. “You basically just handed Sam and Carey the number-one market position in the industry.”

  Jack yanked off his gloves. “Yeah, well, that was the point. I was always going to help Samantha. I couldn’t do anything about Nazar, but taking out Lightner through Leviathan was right in my wheelhouse.”

  Talon considered him for a long time, thoughtful. “You know one of the first things the military teaches you is how to protect your own. We’d lay our lives down for the men in our platoon, no question. It’s not just for God and country. We end up serving each other. Most civilians don’t get that.”

  Jack wiped his face with the towel sitting on his gym bag. “I may not have been in the Navy, but I’d do anything in my power to help you guys. No matter what happens between me and Samantha—I have her back. You guys are all like family now.”

  Admiration lit Talon’s dark eyes. Jack was surprised how gratified he was to see it—the tacit acknowledgement and appreciation from one of Samantha’s inner circle.

  Talon stepped around the bag and gripped his hand. “You’re alright, Jack.”

  “Non c’è di che,” Jack replied as they shook. “Think nothing of it.”

  Talon surprised him by stepping in and clasping his forearm. He looked Jack in the eye. “Sam would skin me alive for telling you, but she asks about you when I give her the weekly update on the Chicago office.”

  A warm hope bloomed in Jack’s chest.

  “I don’t know what’s going on between you and her, but for what it’s worth—I’m rooting for you,” Talon told him in a low voice. “She’d do anything for us—go to any lengths—and we’d do the same. I see now that you’re like that too.”

  “I’m not perfect. I fucked up in so many ways—” Jack confessed. “But I just want her to be safe. More than that—I want her to be happy.”

  Talon considered him. “Even if it’s not with you?”

  Jack heaved out a sigh. It killed him, imagining his life without her, but the truth was, he wanted her happiness more than he wanted his own. They were irrevocably tied together now. After a lifetime focused on selfish pursuits, hedonistic pleasures, and the accumulation of wealth—it was a radical departure to put someone else’s well-being over his own. But the change had happened the moment he’d fallen in love with her.

  “Talon, even if Samantha never speaks to me again—it wouldn’t change the lengths of which I’d go to help her. I’d destroy anyone who wants to see her harmed. I’d defend her no matter what,” he said candidly.

  “It’s a good thing an ordinary life doesn’t interest you,” Talon remarked, smiling.

  Jack looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You can’t be an average guy and live in her world, man. A woman like Sam demands more of you. You have to be stronger, braver, willing to leave it all on the table. Why do you think we’re all so die-hard for her? She’s the only one in our lives who has ever insisted that we live up to our potential. She’s the only person who’s ever equipped us to do it.”

  “That’s because she knows what you’re capable of. Samantha knows how to compel your strength,” Jack pointed out. He was silent for a moment, thinking. “Who does that for her?” he wondered aloud.

  Talon shrugged. “I don’t know man, but isn’t that the job you want?”

  *

  March—Late Afternoon

  Middle of Nowhere, Texas

  S A M A N T H A

  Sam swung open the door to her old Mustang, glancing around the dusty, old parking lot of a broken-down bar. The faded beer signs flickered and hummed in the windows. The only sounds she could hear were crickets hiding in the brown bushes surrounding the dilapidated cinder block building and the tick of her own engine cooling after the fast ride she’d taken.

  The throb in her lower back made her wince as she closed the heavy door. The entrance to the bar was just a few yards away, but she knew she couldn’t make the distance without her cane. As she reached in to retrieve it, she catalogued the two weathered pick-up trucks in the lot and a dusty maroon jalopy parked in the rear of the building as she limped toward the front door. Then she glanced at her watch.

  She had maybe twenty minutes if she were very lucky, though likely less before Alejandro descended upon her like a fire-breathing dragon for ditching his ass back at the ranch with the rest of her security detail.

  Sam smiled to herself. She was wearing him down. Any day now, she figured he’d up and split back to active duty or snap and lose his shit. Either way, she was ready for him to go. Anything was better than the way he watched her as she cursed and struggled her way through each hour of physical therapy. Or his constant, uncompromising nearness, like a long shadow she couldn’t avoid, no matter how hard she tried.

  But she wasn’t so in denial that she didn’t recognize that
she hated him precisely because she needed him. Most of her life, Sam hated needing anyone—or anything. Self-reliance was best. Being her own master, controlling her own manifest destiny—those were the principles she’d built her life around. But being this hurt, taking this long to recover, Sam’d been relieved to discover how much support she truly had in her family and in her team. Everyone had rallied when she couldn’t, surrounding her, supporting her.

  Sam’s conflicted emotions brought back the phantoms of Jack and Wes. The last time she’d ever really needed help, Wes had vanished into thin air. And now Jack wanted her to need him, more than anything, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that—not yet. A big part of her wanted to reach out to him, to be held and loved and cherished, but she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready to trust anyone like that again. Sam pushed away the needling discomfort, squaring her shoulders. She had limited time to get the information she wanted before Alejandro arrived, pissed off with guns blazing.

  The inside of the ramshackle bar was exactly like every honky-tonk that lined the lonely highway from Wyatt Ranch to Houston. As her eyes adjusted to the dimly-lit interior, she catalogued torn vinyl booths, dented metal bar stools, and a wide, scratched old bar that separated her from a wall of second-rate hooch in dull glass bottles. She inhaled the scent of stale smoke and dusty grime, catching the tinny strains of an old Merle Haggard song coming from a rusted Wurlitzer in the corner.

  “Well, well, pretty lady. What can I do you for?” the grizzled old barman asked as she walked to the bar. He wore an old leather vest over a faded plaid shirt, his gut nearly busting out the bottom as he wiped down the bar top with an old rag.

  “Shiner Bock,” Sam told him as she leaned against the scarred wood counter. Two men huddled at a table nearby, staring at her like they hadn’t seen a real, live, honest-to-God woman in years. Sam watched them out of her peripheral as the barman reached into the cooler for her beer. The men looked to be in their forties and capable enough, despite their obvious drunkenness. She’d bet a hundred bucks they were roughnecks, seasonal floaters who worked the various oil fields or ranches around those parts when there was work to be had. They sat hunched over their drinks, murmuring to each other as she fished out a twenty and dropped it on the sticky counter.