This is where things might get hairy.
4: Mia
Three quick short knocks at the door can only be Shirley, a neighbor from down the road. I shove the prison letter under a book on the desk and rush to the front door.
The dang thing always sticks when the weather turns cool. The autumn air teases the flyaway tendrils around my forehead as Shirley gives a little wave on the porch.
“Brought you a potpie,” she says, holding up a small casserole dish.
I step back so she can pass me to head to the kitchen. Shirley is like everyone else in this small town, weathered, friendly, and nosy to a fault. I follow her through the house, glancing at the hidden letter like its naughty contents might announce themselves.
Shirley slides her dish into the oven and sets the temperature to warm. “You can eat it when you like,” she says pleasantly. Her face is pink cheeked, cherubic, and dimpled. Her gray hair is a mass of curls that she keeps up at Patsy’s Beauty Parlor, same as she has since the 1980s. You can see exactly where the little rods line up to produce the waves.
She brushes her hands together. “Starting to feel right like fall out there. You been out today?” Her question is innocent, but I know she’s worried that I haven’t been going anywhere.
“I stopped by the store for some milk this morning,” I say.
She nods and starts moving past me again. “Can’t stay for a chat today. Rowdy got fixed this afternoon and he’s howling like we’ve cut off his…” She pauses. “Well, I guess we did.”
She laughs, a merry tinkling sound. Then she whirls around and places a warm hand on each of my cheeks.
“Beatrice thought the world of you. You figure out what it is you want to do next, and I bet the whole town will be right along to help you do it.”
I nod against her hands. I have no doubt she’s right.
Shirley lets go of my face. “I would feel an awful lot better if you had someone here with you. The Petersons just had a litter of pups. You sure you don’t want one? Half husky. Make a good guard dog.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, although I know having a dog would limit my options. “I might still go back to school.”
“Of course,” Shirley says. “You’re just twenty years old. Lots of life ahead of you.”
A long howl breaks the quiet. “Oh, that Rowdy,” she says. “You’d think we…” She laughs again. “Hopefully he won’t keep you up tonight. We’ll keep him inside except when he does his business.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
Shirley leans forward and kisses my cheek. “Our poor little Mia,” she says. “You know you can always call any of us family.”
“Thank you, Shirley,” I say. I’m grateful to her. I really am.
She hurries down the steps. A sudden gust of wind stirs up the leaves and they whirl in a tight cone. Shirley pauses and turns to see if I saw it. “Autumn!” she calls out. “Change is coming!”
She gets in her car and I see Rowdy with his cone of shame. He’s managed to get his head out the window even with the wide white brim. He howls again.
Poor dog. It’s not far to Shirley’s, just across the road and down a piece, but with Rowdy, she didn’t walk it. Her old Buick roars to life, and she waves out the open window as she backs down the long drive.
I’m alone again.
I wander the living room, touching each of Aunt Bea’s treasured silver bells. I’ve lived in this sprawling house most of my life, after my parents died when I was eight, so I know every nook and cranny.
I should make some tea. I move to the kitchen and flip on the gas burner for the kettle. The transfer of ownership of the house to me will go through soon, after the execution of the will. Then I’ll have to decide what to do. Sell it? Rent it? I need to go finish a degree. Do something.
I feel adrift, unmoored, like a boat some sailor accidentally freed by tying a shoddy timber hitch.
The stopper knot thrusts against you, eliciting another impassioned cry.
Oh, those letters won’t let me stop thinking of them.
But they do contain a strange coincidence, which is one reason I kept them.
The knots. I know all the knots.
My parents drilled nautical terms into me as if they were the language of our family. We had a small sailboat that we took out on the lake not far from our home.
As they taught me to handle the boat, I got to know every type of knot, hitch, and heaving line.
Since reading the prison letters, however, some of the terms have taken on a whole new meaning.
French whipping knot, for example.
Heat flutters through me again. I wish for some sort of history, a bit of sexual experience to draw upon as the emotions flood me while reading the letters. But a tiny public school followed by a small community college hasn’t afforded me much opportunity.
Besides, most people find me odd, in a Belle from Beauty and the Beast way. Studious, sharp nosed, and more likely to stay up all night reading than attending parties.
Not that I am ever invited.
The kettle whistles. I realize I have neglected to fill the tea ball or place it in a mug. Daydreaming, another bad habit, worsened by my solitude.
I spoon some loose tea into the ball and snap it closed. The kitchen is forlorn. I open the stove and pull out Shirley’s potpie. The lovely aroma of chicken calms me, but I’m not hungry.
I put it away in the fridge and wander through the downstairs, both hands wrapped around a warm mug. The cold is coming, but the chill I feel isn’t really about the weather. It’s this sense that I am doomed to wander through my life alone. I can’t even imagine a life duller than the one I have lived so far.
I pause before an image hanging in the hallway. Me. My parents. I am young, maybe six, happy. My father wears a sailing hat, his big grin the only thing visible in its shadow. My mom is beautiful, her hair blowing away from her face, refined and elegant in white shorts and a sweater.
My aunt was my mother’s sister. The two of them didn’t look anything alike, and from all accounts, didn’t act the same either. My mother craved adventure, daring, and met my father when she cut off his catamaran in a local regatta.
My aunt was a kind, slow-paced woman who was never very excitable. Apparently, just like me. When my parents died in a sailing accident, just like everybody said was bound to happen with their lifestyle and their personalities, she took me in.
I head back to the living room, taking small sips of tea. I glance out the windows looking over the lawn.
Another day of my life is passing with nothing to show for it.
Maybe I should take another look at the letters. Crazy as it sounds, I think my mother would approve.
5: Jax
Every head turns as Sam and I saunter through the prison as if we own the place. Inmates sneer at my well-turned suit. Guards peer at Sam as though trying to decide if they know him or not.
The central hub is a maze of glass-walled offices. We stride through, Sam one step ahead of me as escort, and make our way to the check-in desk on the far side. The guard stares at a monitor in front of him. From our angle I can just make out some sort of baseball game. The cord from his earbuds snakes down his chest. He pays us no mind.
Sam clears his throat. “You gonna make us stand here all day?”
After a lingering glance at the screen, the guard finally looks up. He gives us a quick onceover, eyes landing on me. “Who’s this?”
“Librarian. Cleaning up our collection,” says Sam.
The guard sighs and keys something on his screen. He’s got some attitude for only having worked here a few days. A list and schedule replaces the baseball game. “Name?”
“Sergio Avanti,” I say.
The guard frowns as he scrolls through the text. I focus on my breathing. Sam huffs and shifts on his feet. Seconds tick by that feel like hours. The guard pauses and stares at his screen. “What the hell?” he asks aloud.
I know he’s no
t seeing any evidence of our check-in. A trained guard would know something is amiss, but we’re banking on this new hire not wanting to admit he’s confused.
There’s also the matter of the Vigilantes. They control the security here. If we stand by this desk too long, if the guard’s mood sensor goes off or he keys in something suspicious, they could step in. I’ve spotted a couple of them mingling with the staff during my year here. If I am caught, protecting Sam and Colette is my utmost imperative.
The mood sensor overhead shifts from green to yellow. Sam and I are fine. It’s the guard. I consider how best to calm him down.
“Says here you weren’t supposed to come till after Christmas,” he says. “Why are you here now?”
“The schedules are always off,” Sam says. “Second time this week I’ve had to escort somebody who doesn’t show up onscreen.”
The guard stares at the monitor another minute. The mood sensor remains yellow. He glances at my suit as if to convince himself I couldn’t possibly be a prisoner. There’s no reason to doubt my position, although we did probably overshoot the mark for a prison library volunteer.
His mood sensor starts edging into red. “You look familiar.” His voice is tight.
Time to bring this down.
“People often mistake me for the actor Bradford Argetti,” I say. Big film star. I look nothing like him.
The guard snorts. “And I look like the King of England.”
“I favor Will Smith,” Sam says. He pats his good-sized belly, as if the actor ever had an extra pound on him.
This makes the guard laugh. The screen cycles down to yellow, then to green.
He taps a few keys and hits a button to open the steel doors. “Call first next time,” he says. “Get the books straight.”
“Will do,” I say and give him a half salute. “Your Highness.”
He laughs again as we pass through to the main lobby.
“Nice save,” Sam whispers. “Colette’s out front in a black Lexus sedan.” As we approach the door, his guard badge goes red. He frowns. “Pick me up at the employee entrance around the corner.” He turns and disappears down a side hall.
I resist the urge to glance at the camera bubbles on the ceiling. I pass by the visitor entrance queue and exit through the wide front doors. The sun blinds me momentarily as I squint in search of Colette. I need not wait long. Within seconds, a sleek black sedan pulls up on a silent electric engine. The passenger door pops open.
“Someone call for a lift?” Colette’s voice calls from inside, her French accent tickling the words.
I slide into the seat. When the door is closed, I let out a sigh. “You have no idea how good this feels,” I say as I sink into the supple leather.
Colette laughs, her dark bob bouncing against her cheeks. “It is good to see you, too, Jax.”
“You know how glad I am you’re here,” I say.
“Sam get stuck?” Concern crosses her brow, a crease forming below the short bangs.
“Employees can’t exit the front,” I say. “I warned him.”
“He thought he rerouted that badge.”
“Go around the corner,” I say. “He’ll be along.” I have utter faith in Sam’s ability to get out of a tight spot. Besides, he’s a legitimate Vigilante. Unless they tie him to me immediately, he’s golden.
Colette inches the car along the front of the compound, then pulls around to the side. We both scan the gates for openings, side exits, and vulnerable spots in case we have to make a hard getaway.
Minutes tick by.
“Where is he?” Her voice has an edge of fear. “We had to kill communication since we could be overheard.”
The door opens, but instead of Sam, Johnson comes out. He spots the black car and heads straight for us.
“Are we compromised?” Colette asks. “Should we go?” She reaches for the acceleration switch.
I hold out my arm to stop her. “I am not leaving Sam.”
Johnson comes right up to the blacked-out window to peer in. As soon as his nose is close to the glass, I open the door with enough force to break his nasal bone.
He falls back in a stagger, blood dripping down his face. I step out of the car and wait for him to look up.
“Shit,” he says. “You?”
“The one and only,” I say. I’m not interested in getting his blood on my new suit, so instead of hitting him again, I pinch the nerve in his neck that will drop him cleanly.
His knees buckle. I don’t bother to spare him from collapsing facedown on the asphalt.
Sam smashes through the door. “Get ready to roll,” he calls out. Behind him are two other guards.
I step back inside the car. “Impeccable timing,” I tell him.
“Go,” he says as he dives into the backseat.
Colette wheels us away. The guards give chase for a moment, but once Colette punches the nitrous acceleration, they fall behind. One stops to speak into his lapel radio. Won’t matter. In moments we are past the gate.
“Nice work, you two,” I say. “I owe you both a drink.”
“Cut it too close,” says Sam from the backseat, “so you can add that to our tab. Hope your money’s good.” He rolls down the window and tosses his guard badge out onto the asphalt.
“Always,” I say. Not that Sam needs money. Every Vigilante has access to any amount necessary, without question.
Sam claps my shoulder. “God damn, it’s good to have you back,” he says.
“It’s been too quiet without you around,” adds Colette. She downshifts the car back into normal drive mode. “What’s your plan now?”
I watch the scenery whip by out the window for a second. “I need to get to Klaus. I think Jovana’s on to him.”
“Still the thing with that woman?” Colette’s voice holds a laugh.
I frown. “I killed an innocent man because of her.”
“Not so innocent,” Colette says.
“Neither of them,” I say. My stomach burns just thinking of Jovana. I loved that woman. Stupidly. Foolishly. To my doom. She used me to kill one of her rivals, a fellow Vigilante. That act landed me in prison. Only Sam, Colette, and Klaus know the truth. Jovana vanished after getting my hands dirty.
“I think she has Klaus,” I say.
“He was lying low, no?” says Colette. “How do you know he’s been compromised?” I sense the worry in her voice.
“His letters. They weren’t right,” I say.
“You and your bondage,” Colette says, shaking her head. “Klaus probably got his knickers in a knot just trying to keep it all straight.”
I glance back at Sam, who stares out the window, his dark face clouded with concern. “Klaus is a smart man,” he says. “He can manage a little code.”
“I agree,” I say. “We need to get to the Tennessee safe house.”
“We can’t go with you,” says Sam. “We’ve taken enough risk with the syndicate for one day.”
He’s right. They jeopardized their positions as Vigilantes for me.
“Then drop me off. I need to check on him.”
“Already planned for,” Colette says. She glances in the rearview mirror at Sam. “Get out of that suit, Sam. It’s probably got some sort of sensor.”
“Nah. It’s civilian,” Sam says, but still he strips off the guard uniform. As we pass over a river, he rolls down the window and lets it fly.
“Sam! Litterbug!” Colette is indignant.
“Toss the suit! Don’t litter!” Sam tries to sound mad, but the Louisiana lilt to his voice belies the humor.
I sit back in the seat, savoring the sights. One year in that hellhole. The only view was the straight-up look at the sky while out on the grounds. Now Chicago stretches out in all directions. Pubs. Restaurants. Long rows of houses fitted close together. The El.
“I’m taking you as far as the suburbs,” Colette says. “There we meet up with our clone IDs.”
“I was wondering how you went off grid,” I say.
Sam pulls a knit shirt down over his chest. “You’ve been in the clink, boss. Been a lot of tech upgrades in the syndicate while you were out of commission.” He taps a leather suitcase beside him on the backseat. “Inside here are all the tools we predicted you might need while you avoid the network. There’s an audio rundown on them for you to listen to on the drive.”
I nod appreciatively. Sam is the gadget man, even if he can be old school about it. He often chooses a hammer over a retina scan, but he always knows the latest Vigilante tech. His ability to circumvent it with no more than a loose wire and a pair of pliers has saved us more times than I can count.
Colette has always been our getaway girl. She can maneuver anything with wheels, wings, sails, or engine.
“This Lexus is stolen, and the identifier chip is attached to a jelly brick in the trunk to give it some mass,” Colette says. “I’d say you’ve got three days on this ID before he surfaces.”
I don’t ask about the status of the man whose identity I’ll be borrowing. When Colette says “surfaces,” it could mean anything, and it’s probably better I don’t know.
Sam points at the front dash. “I’ve set up a countdown on the ID.” A red display projects seventy hours onto the windshield.
“I think you should give up on the woman,” Colette says, a bitter edge to her voice.
I try to sound cool and impassive, not that it fools her. “The syndicate is going to come after me,” I say. “Jovana’s the only shot I have at clearing my name.”
I have zero future if the Vigilantes don’t back me on this, and they all know it.
Sam leans forward. “Jovana’s been off grid the whole year. Nobody can track her, not even the syndicate.”
“That’s impossible,” I say.
“She’s obviously got friends in high-tech places,” Sam says.
Colette reaches over to squeeze my arm. “We’ll help as we can,” she says. “All the letters are scanned and in the system.”
The Vigilante's Lover: A Romantic Suspense Thriller (The Vigilantes Book 1) Page 2
