Empire of Lies

by Whitney G.

  “Okay, so you’re not completely off your shit this week…” He picks it up and places it into his wallet.

  He taps his fingers against the tabletop, signaling the bartender for the first round of beers. Then he orders four trays of bitter shots.

  He waits until we’re alone again before taking a long sip, narrowing his eyes at me.

  “Where are we on the research part of the Ware job?” he asks, finally. “Did you go to his apartment and set up the carbon monoxide gas to knock him out for the night?”

  “No, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “You can’t do it tomorrow.” He shakes his head. “I already have someone on it, though, since he has a flight to Japan, remember?”

  I honestly don’t, so I pick up a beer and take a few sips.

  Trevor stares at me for several minutes, not saying a word, and I don’t volunteer any conversation.

  “I knew that I should’ve gotten an underling to do the Thatchwood job from the very beginning,” he says finally, shaking his head. “The moment I knew it was going to be a conflict of interest for me, I should’ve never allowed you to do it. I should’ve never let you get involved, and you would still be the halfway sane person you used to be.”

  “How the hell was it ever a conflict of interest for you?”

  “Numerous reasons,” he says. “For one, telling you who the client was, the pieces and the plans. We agreed that you would always be in the dark, and the moment I let you into the light, you lost your fucking mind.”

  I signal for the check. I’m not in the mood for this right now, and the sound of Meredith’s soft laughter is starting to play in my head.

  “Wait.” He pulls my hand down. “Wait…I’m not judging you at all.”

  “That’s what it seems like,” I say. “I don’t think either of us is in a position to do that, ever.”

  “Listen to me,” he says, looking more vulnerable than I’ve seen him in a while. “Once you finish the final guy on our personal list, you’re going to be tempted to run back to her and beg for her to take you back.”

  “I’m not begging her for shit.”

  “You say that now.” He looks like he’s on the verge of tears for some reason. “But you will, because you love her. You shouldn’t, but you fucking do.” He pauses. “Anyway, once you go back and tell her who you really are and everything you’ve done, she’ll never look at you the same again. She’ll tell you ‘thank you’ for sparing her life, but she’ll say that she can’t bring herself to ever be with a murderer.”

  “I’m not a murderer.”

  “Equalizer, revenge-getter, champion for delayed justice, whatever,” he says. “It won’t matter. She’ll never be okay with everything you’ve done. And you can’t build a relationship on a foundation of lies, so telling her the truth is a must. I’m just letting you know what to expect.”

  “Can you also tell me if you have some type of psychic abilities that I’ve never known about? It really would’ve come in handy when we were younger.”

  “I don’t.” He shakes his head. “I’ve just had a similar experience, and I never told you about it because you always said that I was too damn emotional.”

  I raise my eyebrow.

  “I’m just trying to save you from feeling any more pain.” He looks away from me. “I tried to do what you did before—save a target who I loved, but it didn’t work out.”

  I lean back against the booth, confused as to why he’s waited until just now to mention this.

  “Which job was it?” I ask.

  “A woman named Ali Carter,” he says. “Two and a half years ago. The Rhode Island tryst.”

  I nod, remembering that one. A simple drowning by request, a four-million-dollar payday.

  “You told me that you finished that one faster than any job you’d ever done before,” I say. “You told me that it was one of the easiest paydays ever.”

  “I know, but…” Guilt suddenly fills his eyes. “I fucking lied, Michael. I couldn’t kill her. I still can’t believe I almost did it in the first place.”

  I make a mental note to press him about this when he looks like his emotions are under control, because he looks like he’s about to break down and cry. I haven’t seen him do that in years, and I want to keep it that way.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I just don’t understand how that job ties into Meredith being a conflict of interest for you.”

  “Ali Carter was formerly Ali Carter Thatchwood.” He pauses. “She’s Meredith’s mother.”

  What the fuck? “What?” I narrow my eyes at him, refusing to believe the words that just fell from his mouth. “What the fuck did you just say?

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t spoken to her since, she’s long moved on, and it would’ve never worked out between us anyway.”

  I tap my fingers against the table, glaring at him in utter shock. Waiting for him to give me the goddamn explanation I deserved, before I beat it out of him.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to push her down into the sea with the anchor, so…” His voice trails off for several seconds. “I kept her tied up and told her that she had two options. She could either roll off the boat herself and let the anchor follow her, or she could agree to stay missing for the rest of her life.” He lets out a breath. “I had to convince her to take option two.”

  I set down my glass. “Where is she now?”

  “She died a tragic death, and she’ll never be found.” He mocks me, rolling his eyes. “Safe and currently deeply in love with a man who isn’t me.”

  “She never thanked you for saving her life?”

  “No,” he says, swallowing. “She said that by taking her away from her old life, by ripping her away from everything she loved, that I’d still killed her. She didn’t want to see or hear from me again.

  “And you were fine with that?”

  “Does it look like I was fine with that?” He shoots me a glare as he tosses back the rest of his drink. “It is what it is. I learned a valuable lesson, so you won’t have to. Don’t fall for the targets. It’ll never work out.”

  Silence stretches between us for several minutes, and I can’t help but think of the time when Meredith suddenly left my club, when an Adele song triggered the memory of her mother’s death. Then I remember all of the other nights when she’d burst into tears while lying in my arms, whispering, “You’re all I have now in this city, Michael…I know I barely know you, but you’re really all I have…”

  Shaking away those thoughts, I can’t help but ask the obvious. “Who ordered the hit on her mother?”

  “I don’t think so.” He shakes his head. “I’ve let you in on enough logistics.”

  “Who the fuck was it, Trevor?”

  “Depends.” He hesitates. “Can you promise that you won’t react or do anything about it?”

  “No.”

  “Can you promise that you won’t react or do anything about it for at least two weeks?”

  “I can consider it.”

  “I guess that’s as fair as I’ll get with you on that,” he says, hesitating again. “It was her father’s sister, Meredith’s aunt. She only spoke to the underlings, though. She had no idea about me being involved at all.”

  I let out a breath. “What a fucked-up family.”

  “Tell me about it.” He shrugs.

  “Do you still have the video of her asking for the hit?”

  “Only if you promise not to get mad at me for keeping it.”

  “I won’t.” I lean back. “I think it’s one of the smartest things you’ve ever done.”

  He nods, sighing. “Where’d you leave Meredith?”

  “Mexico.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Not at all.”

  He smiles. “Do you have a backup plan to get her where she needs to be for the rest of her life?”

  “I do.”

  “Good.” He nods, orders another round of beer. His cell phone rings, and he tells me that he needs to step ou
tside.

  To prevent myself from thinking about everything he’s just said about Meredith’s mother, I look up at the television and try to immerse myself in the real-world. The images onscreen are of people rushing on the streets, of protestors committing utter anarchy.

  As the ticker flashes on screen, I squint and read the words.

  Drug Cartels Wreak Havoc on Mexican Resorts; Sixty Injured. Seventy Dead.

  I immediately stand up and walk closer to the screen, noticing that the resorts in question are twenty miles away from the one where I left Meredith. But if the reporters’ words hold any weight, her resort could be a target, too.

  Pulling out my phone, I call my contact at the airport.

  “Yes, Mr. Anderson?” a deep voice answers on the first ring. “How may I help you today?”

  “I need you to tell me which flight my wife took to Switzerland,” I say. “Flight number and date, please.”

  “I would be more than happy to do that, but…” His voice trails off and he lets out a sigh. “Your wife never made it here, sir.”

  “Come again?”

  “She never came. I called the driver and the resort you mentioned that she would be checking into when she arrived,” he said. “I don’t think she ever got across the lazy river, sir.”

  “Are you sure?” My blood runs cold. “Can you double check?”

  “I’ve triple checked. I’m five hundred percent sure, sir.”

  I end the call and immediately charter a flight.

  Fuck.

  Meredith

  Now

  NYPD Crime Watch Tip Submission Form

  I would like to report a malicious murder for hire plot that involves my soon to be ex-husband, Michael Anderson (owner of the Fahrenheit 900 Club) and Leonardo Thatchwood, billionaire CEO, i.e., my father.

  My father hired the former to murder me, but Mr. Anderson took it upon himself to hold me captive, in an isolated house, for what he claimed was my “best interest.” He lied to the media and reporters, along with Mr. Thatchwood, and I would like the truth to come to the light A-fucking-SAP.

  Although I am clearly still alive and in another country, I seem to have misplaced my passport, so I’m unable to return to the United States of America at this time.

  I truly believe that both of these men belong in prison, and I am willing to testify at both of their trials.

  I have a prepaid phone and a number where I can be reached once you receive this tip.

  Sincerely,

  Meredith A. Thatchwood

  555-786-5019

  I stare at my words on the submission form, waiting for the alcohol that’s currently coursing through my veins to give me the courage to hit send. This is the seventh day in a row that I’ve come into the resort’s computer lab and typed these same words.

  My incessant stalling is due to the fact that my mind and my heart are playing on opposite sides of the field: Emotions on offense, thoughts on defense. And every night, when the tears soak my pillow, I suffer through a never-ending tug of war between the two. There’s never a clear-cut winner; no referee to be found.

  To make matters worse, I still wake up from time to time, in the middle of the night, and rub my clit to the thoughts of Michael’s face, unable to ever think of another man who can dominate me in the bedroom like he does. Whenever I’m on the edge of an orgasm, I can’t help but think about the way his mouth always knew the right way to pleasure me for hours. The way he filled me with his cock and owned my body with every stroke.

  Stay focused, Meredith. Stay focused on the goddamn crime report and hit send…

  My finger hovers over the return key, but my heart steps in for an unexpected block. It still beats a different tempo for Michael, still doesn’t understand how I could ever lump him into the same category with my father.

  Sighing, I lean back and open a new browsing tab for YouTube, typing the words, “Initial Police Presser for Meredith Thatchwood.”

  Not a day has gone by that I haven’t watched and re-watched all of my father’s press conferences about my disappearance, wondering why the hell no one has nominated him for a real-life Academy Award. I’ve tried posting anonymous threads on their public tip site to report what he’s done, and they’ve finally blocked my fake email address after sending me twenty of their standard “Submitting false reports to the police department can be considered a crime,” in return, every time.

  For whatever reason, I can’t bring myself to call anyone—not even Gillian, but it’s not by choice. Anytime I even think about using the phone in my suite, I remember the short, curt note that Michael stuffed at the bottom of my duffle bag.

  Meredith,

  It’s in your best interest that you follow my instructions.

  Do not make any phone calls while you’re in Mexico.

  Do not talk to anyone while you’re in Mexico.

  Do not fucking trust anyone.

  You’re welcome for saving your life.

  --M

  Shaking my head, I delete my words from the Crime Submission form and log out of the computer. My heart wins this round again, but I know logic will have its chance sooner or later.

  I make my way to the resort’s luxury bar/gift shop and make a mental note to grab one of the “I love Mexico” vibrators that I’ve been eyeing for the past few weeks.

  “Welcome to the Agua Bar.” A man in all white steps in front of me. He hands me a menu as I take a seat at a booth.

  “Tell me whatever you want when you’re ready,” he says, setting a bright pink margarita in front of me. “This one is on me.”

  “No, it’s on me.” A guy in a black polo shirt and inked sleeves suddenly takes a seat next to me. “You mind if I join you?”

  “Actually, I was hoping to sit here alone and think.” I give him a fake smile. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” He smiles, but he doesn’t move. He leans back against the leather booth, looking up at the waiter. “She’ll have a Bloody Mary. As will I.”

  I debate getting up and moving to another booth. “I’m not really—”

  “Into Bloody Marys?” he asks, smiling. “This bar makes some of the best ones. You’re missing out if you haven’t tried any.”

  “No, it’s not that… I’m uh…” I feel my fake smile fading as Michael’s “Do not fucking trust anyone…” sounds in my head. “I’m actually here waiting on my husband. It’s our honeymoon.”

  “Can’t be,” he says, looking at my wedding ring. “A man who married a woman like you would never let his bride out of his sight, especially on a honeymoon. Well, a man like me anyway.”

  “We’re not attached at the hip like that,” is all I can manage to say.

  “No?” He shrugs. “Well, in that case, I’ll just move when your husband arrives, yeah?”

  Get the fuck up and run, Meredith. Now.

  I say nothing, and I can’t move as fast as I want to. I’ve drunk too much alcohol hours prior.

  “Lighten up,” he says, his smile widening. “I’m not trying to overstep my boundaries. I’m just working on my social skills and my English. I probably shouldn’t have said that last line. My apologies.”

  “It’s okay...” I look around for an exit, then I notice him staring hard at my wedding ring.

  “What does your husband do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asks.

  “He works in real estate.” I lie. “He can sell you a house in New York if you’re looking.”

  “So, you’re from New York…” He’s still staring at my wedding ring. “Is that where you got that ring from?”

  My heart begins to race as another guy enters the bar and sits right next to him, placing a gun on the table.

  “I’m not sure what you’re expecting from me,” I say, swallowing. “I think I need to go now.”

  “I just want to know where you got that ring from.” His voice is suddenly harsh and cold, his English more than perfectly clear. “That’s all I’m asking.”
<
br />   “I don’t know.” I push my drink away. “My husband never told me.”

  “You probably should’ve asked.” He suddenly leans closer and grabs my hand, holding it up under the upside-down canteen light. “It’s about five carats, right?”

  “Nah.” His friend answers for me. “That’s thirteen. Fifteen if you count the tiny stones on that criss-cross band.”

  “That’s a lot of carats,” he says, looking at me. “Your husband must really love the way you fuck. That, or you have one hell of a lifestyle back in the states.”

  My mouth struggles to say a word, my brain is useless. The only thing I can feel is a sudden rush of fear coursing through my veins.

  “I mean, if you’re wearing that much on your finger, I can only imagine how much you’re really worth to someone.” He’s still holding my hand. “I actually recognize this designer’s work. It’s the first thing I noticed when I saw you here last week…” He trails the edge of his nail against the design, slowly circling the silver spiders that hold the clasp. Then he touches the tiny king and queen chess pieces that are etched into both sides of the band.

  I stiffen as he saves the best part for last, the part that made me gasp when Michael first showed it to me months ago. It’s the mammoth white diamond that’s perfectly cut and aligned with the tiny red rubies. I never dared to ask how much the ring cost him; I didn’t want to know.

  “The designer was found dead in his apartment quite some time ago,” he says, finally letting go of my hand. “All of his beautiful work gone and moved to the black market, or sold to some of the cartels. Interesting that you’ve managed to gain access to such a thing, isn’t it?”

  I can’t get a single word to fall from my mouth, and I can feel all the color leaving my face. I’m suddenly regretting being so damn defiant and not following Michael’s instructions.

  “On another note, now that I can see you up close and personal, you look familiar,” he says. “Like really familiar. Are you an actress or something?”