“That kind of shift?” she asks, smiling across at me.
“Brutal.” I drop my boots and wriggle my toes, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “How’s your day been?”
“Brutal.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Never does these days, not since Dad fucked us over. “Plenty of men to keep me busy.”
I laugh at her candid humor. “Why brutal?”
“Fucking Danny Black,” she mutters, pulling away from the curb.
“Danny Black?” I mimic. “The Brit? He’s dead.” Has been for over a year.
“Yeah, and now every corrupt criminal fucker on the planet has seen a green light to move in on Miami.”
“Oh.”
“I popped into Hardy’s and got supplies.” She thumbs over her shoulder to the back seat, and I crane my neck to find paint. Lots of it. I sigh, and she pouts. “It’s relaxing,” she says, and I scoff at Mom’s form of winding down. “Humor me.”
“Where’s the wine?”
“Shit,” she mutters, smacking the wheel. “Wine. I knew I was missing something important.”
I smile, but it’s unsure. She’s missing many things these days. Fuck my father. “We’ll stop at a store,” I say as my phone rings. Speak of the devil. I quickly reject the call, turning it face down in my lap.
Mom gives me a side-eye. “You can’t ignore him forever,” she says gently. “He’s your father.”
“I won’t ignore him forever. Just until he finds his senses.”
“Put your seatbelt on,” she orders, and I do as I’m bid. “What if he doesn’t want to find his senses?”
How could he not? He and Mom have been together for over thirty years. “Then he’s not the man I thought he was. We were happy in New York City.”
She looks across the car at me. “You didn’t have to come to Miami.”
I give her a tired roll of my eyes. “Uncle Lawrence met Dexter and moved here. You and Dad moved here. There was nothing left in the city for me.” She knows that. And she knows I could never be in a different state to her. My father, yes, but not Mom.
“Well, everything happens for a reason. You wouldn’t have met Ollie.”
Yes, my life is moving forward, but Mom’s has gone back thirty years. “Are you saying I should be thanking Dad?”
She shrugs noncommittedly.
“He’s a narcissistic prick who’s become pumped up on power and wealth. I don’t recognize him anymore.” Did I say that out loud? Regardless, conversation over. At least, with Mom it is. In my head, I’m having many mental arguments with my father over his transgressions. The respected businessman. The respected businessman who’s been fucking another woman. Moved her into the marital home. Paraded her around town like some status symbol. She’s younger than me, for fuck’s sake.
“I’m not sure I do either.” Mom sighs. “It’s his birthday tomorrow.”
“I’ll be sure to shit in his card.”
“Come on, Beau.” She shakes her head to herself, and I see with painful clarity the internal battle she’s having. She hates him. My father humiliated her. Betrayed her. She’s a powerful woman, taking men down daily. Every criminal in the state of Florida must have winced when they got word of Agent Jaz Hayley transferring from New York City. And yet she refuses to accept me hating him.
“What wine do you want?” I ask, seeing the store up ahead. Enough about Dad. Even talking about him makes my stomach turn. I unclip my seatbelt before she stops the car and am scowled at as a result. “Sorry, Agent Hayley,” I quip, and she smacks my arm.
“Speaking of which . . .” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye.
She has my attention, and she knows it. “Did you get inside information on the results?”
Her smile says it all. “Top of the class,” she says proudly. “Fuck, Beau, you got top five percent in the country.” She pulls into a parking space and turns in her seat to face me. I’m struck dumb. Top five? I’m feeling a little emotional. The FBI Phase 1 Test has consumed me. Drained me. Sent me batshit crazy. “Well done, sweetheart.” She reaches for my cheek and wipes away a stray tear.
“I’m so glad I’m more like you than Dad,” I say over a hiccup, going in for a hug. I feel her chuckling against me. “Thanks, Mom.” There’s no question, without her support, help, and maybe her genes, there’s no way I would have gotten through the past few years.
“Enough now.” She breaks our hug and brushes herself down. “You’re in your blues. No hugging allowed.”
“And when I’m in plain clothes?”
She laughs lightly. “Hold your horses, Ms. Croft. Phase One is only the first hurdle.”
“Will you not call me that?” I mutter as she pulls something out from beneath her seat.
“A congrats present.” She flashes a Lara Croft mug under my nose, and I narrow my eyes on the image of the character I’ve been dubbed by my colleagues. “I’m so glad I vetoed your father’s idea of sending you to ballet,” she quips.
“So you sent me to karate instead.” I laugh, taking the mug.
“And now you’re going to be as good an agent as your mom. But younger and fitter. And bendier.” Her nose wrinkles. “Go get that wine.”
“We should open the bottle of Krug you got when you graduated.” She’s kept it in its presentation box for years, dusting it weekly, admiring it, not letting anyone else near it.
“Never go near the Krug.” She grabs my cheeks and squeezes, looking deadly serious. “Only if your life depends on it.”
I roll my eyes and bat her away, reaching down to pull on my boots. “You’ve got to drink it one day.”
“Maybe,” she muses, looking down at her cell when it rings. Her eyebrows high, she returns to face the wheel. “You go. I’ve got to take this.”
I don’t ask who it is. Never do. She’s technically off duty, but she’s never really off duty. I leave her to take the call, and it’s not until I’m in the store that I realize I have the mug still in my grasp. A Miami cop wandering around a store holding a Lara Croft mug.
I get a few odd looks, to be expected, as I head for the alcohol section, claiming a bottle of red and white. “We’re celebrating,” I declare to myself, going to the checkout. I pay and stuff the bottles into a bag with my mug, wandering back out of the store, trying to find some enthusiasm for the night of painting ahead.
As I approach Mom’s car, I see she’s still talking, and my pace slows when I detect her expression. My usually cool mother looks . . . troubled. She forces a smile when she spots me, and it drops a second later. Then I see something I haven’t seen on Mom before.
Dread.
I pick up my pace, rushing toward her, as her eyes get progressively wider, her face more fearful. Her hand comes up, as if to stop me in my tracks. Of course, it naturally increases my pace.
What’s going on?
“No, Beau!” she screams.
I drop my bag, her terror-filled yell slicing through me. But my feet don’t stop moving. My heart sprints. Nothing could prevent me getting to her.
And then the world lights up.
My eardrums feel like they’ve burst.
My skin burns.
I’m thrown skyward.
And blackness falls.
1
Miami - Present Day
JAMES
I stand under the spray, motionless, my body heavy, the hot water pelting my back. It would hurt. Burn. If I hadn’t survived an inferno before. I look down at my bare feet, at the last of the blood-stained water slipping down the drain.
Clean.
I step out and wrap a towel around my waist, collecting the oil off the vanity unit and tipping some into my hand. I massage it between my palms as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The adrenalin has gone already. It’s vanished, abandoned me, leaving nothing but a fresh thirst for another kill. I’m running low on targets. Then what? I can only hope and pray that the peace I need is there to greet me at the end of this road of blood and dea
th. I can no longer exist in this world without vengeance. And without vengeance, peace. If I have neither, I’m as good as dead.
I take my hand over my shoulder and start massaging the oil into the top of my back, feeling the burning of my flesh all over again. Years later, it’s still hurting. Tormenting.
There’s a knock at my bathroom door, and I turn my eyes onto it. “What?”
Goldie appears. She watches me rubbing at my back before checking my facial expression. She clearly doesn’t like what she sees, but she says nothing. “The man driving away from the scene. His name’s Spittle. Apparently, he got bored in retirement.”
“Interesting,” I say, starting to work on the other side of my back. And what would a former FBI agent be doing with a contact of The Bear?
“His number.” She holds out a piece of paper as she moves to the side, and I take it as I pass her, heading to my office. I settle at my desk and pull a phone from my drawer, punching in the digits and settling back.
“Agent Spittle,” I say quietly when he answers. “Or ex agent, I should say.”
“Who’s this?”
“We need to talk about your whereabouts tonight.” I smile when he inhales, and I point my remote control at the bank of screens before me, directing the curser to the send icon on the video displayed on the center TV. A video of him walking away from a man, Adrian Wallace, who I know has contacts in drug trafficking and was recently in touch with The Bear’s men. Spittle has a briefcase in his grasp. He gets in his car outside a derelict warehouse and drives away.
Another inhale. “Oh, you’ve not seen the best of it yet,” I taunt, just as a gunshot sounds and Adrian Wallace, also known as The Eagle, drops like a sack of shit. “That bit,” I muse thoughtfully. “It’s my favorite part of this movie.”
“He’s dead?” Spittle breathes, undoubtedly dripping beads of sweat all over his phone as he stares at Wallace’s lifeless body.
“I’d say so, but his body has yet to be discovered. I’ve got to say, it doesn’t look all too good on you, Spittle. So what were you doing meeting a man known to have associations with drug dealers? Feeding a personal habit?”
“Fucking hell,” he breathes. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the beginning of your end.” I kill the screen and bring up Adrian Wallace’s mug shot, tapping out DECEASED across his file. “Or I could be the beginning of your beginning. Up to you.”
“You’re British.”
“I can see how you made it in the FBI.” What a fucking cock. “Is my nationality a problem, or do you only bend for certain ethnicity groups?”
He laughs, and it’s nervous. “Well, you British have a habit of leaving a lasting impression around here.”
“So I’ve heard.” He’s talking about The Brit. The Angel-faced Assassin. Savage. Merciless.
Dead.
“What do you want?” Spittle asks.
“I’m not sure yet, but be on standby.” I hang up and roll my shoulders, feeling the tightness there. Not of my muscles. But my skin.
“There’s probably no good time to tell you this,” Goldie says, and I shoot my stare to her at the doorway. “Beau Hayley has appealed the ruling into her mother’s death.”
I breathe out, old ghosts coming back to haunt me. And new ones it seems. I can feel Goldie watching me. Monitoring me. Wondering what the fuck I’m thinking.
“What the fuck are you thinking?” she asks, coming over and taking a seat on the other side of my desk. “I hate that look on you.”
I cup my chin, feeling the roughness as I mold into it with my fingertips.
“James?”
I give her a moment of my eyes, my mind whirling. And then I reach for the phone again, calling Spittle back. “Find out how the appeal into Jaz Hayley’s death is going.”
“Jaz? What do you want with Jaz?”
“You’re not here to ask questions. You’re here to answer them.”
“The appeal is being rejected,” he says quietly.
“And the daughter?”
“What about her? She doesn’t know yet.”
“Yet,” I murmur, reaching for my temple and rubbing away the tension. She’s not going to give up until she gets justice for her mother, and of all people, I know there is no justice in this world. My back tingles, as if to reinforce it. And images of my family, my whole fucking family, parade through my mind. I quickly push those thoughts away and refocus on the problem at hand. Beau Hayley.
For fuck’s sake. Does the woman want to die? I would say that was a stupid question if I didn’t know her medical history since her mum’s death. And I can relate. Been there. Done that. Wanted to die over and over again. Like I said, there is no justice in this world. So I learned to make justice my way. “Send me her number.”
“Whose number?” Spittle asks, confused.
“Beau Hayley’s.”
“Why?”
“Did you just ask another question?”
“No.” He sighs, sounding as defeated as a man could be. “Jesus, I’m tired.”
“Me too. Exhausted. Exhausted of fucking waiting.”
“Tell me who you are.”
“Get me Beau Hayley’s number.” I hang up and toss the phone back in the drawer, breathing out my frustration.
“What are you going to do?” Goldie asks. “Call her and ask her nicely to back off?”
I turn my eyes onto her, but I say nothing. I don’t need to. My face must say it all. Fuck off, you sarcastic bitch.
Goldie tilts her head. “It’s been two years. You got Jaz’s phone records. Nothing on them. I’ve checked all records on safety deposit boxes. Nothing. If she shared or hid information on you, your name, anything, you’d know by now.”
“I have a bad feeling.” I get up and head for the sauna. I need to sweat out some of this stress.
I need to burn.
Burn and know I won’t die.
I strip off, leaving my clothes in a pile at the door. The heat hits me like a brick, and I look at the thermometer on the back wall. One eighty.
I sit on the top bench and collect some water from the bucket, throwing it on the unit, and steam billows up and shrouds the space.
Not seen.
Leaning back against the wood, I close my eyes. I hear the screams instantly. Screams that can only be associated with death. The screams of my mum. Of my dad. Of my sister.
All burning alive.
I open my eyes to darkness and lean forward, putting my hand over the grill of the steam unit, the hot coals only an inch from my palm. I hold still. Absorb the pain. The heat. Because I won’t die. This fire won’t kill me.
Clenching my hand into a fist, I squeeze away the burn and lie down, reaching up and turning the sand timer. Fifteen minutes. I’ll turn it another four times before I’ll allow myself to leave this inferno.
It will never be enough.
2
Miami – Present Day
BEAU
A person’s ability to escape depends on their ability to imagine. I’ve lost my imagination. Lost everything. I’m trapped—trapped in a world that doesn’t make sense to me anymore. Trapped in a body I can’t even look at. Trapped with thoughts I want to physically rip from my head. Trapped with feelings that blur and blend into nothing. Happiness is a forgotten emotion. It’s safer to feel nothing, to ignore that I’m a fuck-up. To disregard the fact that I’m beyond help.
Accept I am alone.
Give up on hoping—hoping I can ever be normal again.
Because without hope, there can be no disappointment.
“Have you thought of ending your life, Beau?” Dr. Fletcher asks, and I blink, looking up from my lap, woken up from my daze.
All the time. “Never,” I say coolly, aware that the alternative answer will have me sent swiftly to a psychiatric hospital. Not again.
Her eyes fall to my wrists, and mine fall with them. I clear my throat and pull the sleeve of my shirt down, holding the cuff in my palm with
my fingertips. “Tell me what you did today,” she goes on, and I smile to myself. “Is something amusing?”
I force myself to look at her. This woman, who is so together, so calm and serene, I could easily punch her in the face and not feel an ounce of guilt. “Nothing is amusing.” Not anymore. Not in my life.
“You smiled.” She crosses one leg over the other, her slender, perfect, untarnished limbs like a horrible torture. A reminder than I am anything but untarnished. Anything but perfect. She shouldn’t be a therapist. Dr. Fletcher is so flawless, it’s enough to send even the sanest person over the edge. “A person smiling suggests they are amused,” she adds.
“I’m amused that I’m here,” I say honestly. “I’m here, and I don’t want to be.” She knows I’m not talking about my sessions. Sessions with various therapists that have cost a small fortune and done nothing to chase away my hatred or my demons in the past two years. I’m talking about this world. This life. And yet each time I’ve convinced myself that there is a way out, that small, infuriating part of my brain surfaces and warns me away from the blade. From the rope. From the pills.
The voice of my mom.
The buzzer sounds, and I breathe in, rising from the chair. “It’s been a pleasure, Dr. Fletcher.” I smile, and she huffs a small, disbelieving puff of laughter. I’m sure it’s unprofessional, but I can’t blame her. She’s endured me for six months now. Six whole pointless months. And I’ll keep on coming. The alternative is a hospital. I’m not game. I bust my balls every day trying to make sure everyone around me thinks I’m okay. My act doesn’t wash with Dr. Fletcher. I’m ill, no question. Poisoned by hatred and bitterness. I’m used to it now. Comfortable with it. Accepting.
The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2 Page 2
