The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2

by Malpas, Jodi Ellen

  My heart squeezes. I take no pleasure in Lawrence’s despair. Or Dexter’s exasperation. “How were things after I left the hospital?” I ask, wincing as I do.

  “Dreadful. Your father demanded I arrest James, Ollie swore to kill him, and Lawrence declared retirement.”

  Basically, a fucking mess. And things haven’t exactly been rosy for me here. “I’m coming home.”

  “Oh?”

  The curiosity in his voice is undeniable. “No questions, but I’m coming home.”

  “Okay,” he agrees, and I smile. He never presses. “I’m leaving now.” Another call comes in, and I glance down to see Nath trying to get through. “I’ll see you soon,” I say to Dexter, accepting Nath’s call. “Are you trying to kill me with stress?” I blurt, unable to hold back my exasperation. “Where have you been?”

  “Don’t ask,” he mutters, sounding out of breath, completely harassed. “It’s been the worst twenty-four hours of my career.”

  “You were supposed to meet me at your place. I’ve been so worried.”

  “The dead men send their apologies,” he retorts sardonically. “All three of them.”

  Three? “What happened?”

  “Who the fuck knows. I have dead bodies turning up all over town.”

  “Connected?”

  “Well, they’re all criminals,” he says, sighing. “And to top it off, a shooting at a club.”

  “What?”

  “Intended to take out Danny Black’s cousin and ex-right-hand man.”

  “Proof that you can never get away from that life,” I murmur walking over to the couch and lowering.

  “Funny. He said the same. But more importantly, what the hell has been going on with you?”

  I look down at my arm. “So Lawrence has been blabbing his mouth off?”

  “No.”

  I frown. And then . . . “Ollie.”

  “No. Dexter, actually. He’s worried. He swung by to see me. Lawrence is a mess. He’s worried about him too. Where are you?”

  I glance around James’s apartment. “Not home,” I say quietly, giving him an answer without actually answering.

  “Who is this guy, Beau?”

  What can I say? An escape. I can’t tell Nath I have no idea who James is. He’ll think I’m certifiable. I’m pretty sure Lawrence is a whisper away from helping my father send me back to that hellhole they call a hospital. “He’s my business,” I retort with conviction I’m not feeling.

  “Sure.” Nath murmurs. “Coffee? We need to talk.”

  I’m up from the couch in a beat. “Mom,” I breathe. “What did you find out?”

  “Just tell me where you are. I’ll pick you up.”

  Once again, I glance around James’s apartment, my mind working fast, refusing to divulge that information to my friend. “I’ll meet you. Where are you?”

  “Ziff Ballet Opera House.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Dead judge.”

  “At the opera house?”

  “No, at the apartment block opposite. Like I said, dead bodies everywhere. Meet me at our usual place. Half an hour.” He hangs up, and I stare at the city through the glass, my head set to explode. And I inhale, things seeming to click in my brain as my cell falls from my hand, hitting the floor at my feet with a loud clatter. Visions. Visions of James, of the opera house, of me restrained to the chair while he disappeared for twenty minutes. Of Goldie carrying the black case and slipping through a restricted access door. Of the shell casing under the chair.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper, the onslaught attacking me hard, rolling through my head relentlessly, making it spin. I lower down to the couch. Glance over my shoulder to the stairs. My head pushes the shell casing to the forefront.

  If you leave, I’ll hunt you down and bring you back here.

  I look down my front, to my body still in James’s clothes. Then to the door. And my arm. I can’t drive. Perhaps an automatic, but not a stick shift. “Fucking hell,” I curse, standing, swiping up my cell from the floor and heading upstairs. I find my clothes on the bathroom floor. Still wet. The universe seriously doesn’t want me to leave James’s glass box. My cell rings, and I look at James’s name dominating my screen. I answer. Say nothing.

  “Don’t leave, Beau,” he warns quietly, and I look up and around, searching for the cameras.

  “Tell me who you are.”

  “Tell me you won’t leave.”

  “I’m not bargaining for the identity of the man I’m fucking.” I go to the bed, perch on the side, and remove my sling, awkwardly stripping with only one hand. I draw my jeans up my legs inch by inch, alternating between each leg, falling to my back and wriggling to help me get them up to my waist. The button fly is impossible, but the wet denim is tight around my ass, keeping them up. I slip my arms through the sleeves of my shirt and spend too long fastening a couple of buttons, hissing each time I twist my arm, before replacing the sling. Just looking at it angers me. The restriction. The pain.

  My cell rings again and I ignore it, fetching my shoes and keys and leaving, my heart in my throat. The ride down in the elevator feels like it takes years, plenty of time for me to click the fucked-up puzzle into place. “Jesus Christ,” I whisper, my head bombarded with every tiny detail I need to reach an unthinkable conclusion.

  The moment the elevator doors open, I’m greeted by Otto, his wide frame filling the double glass doors onto the street. He gives me a look to suggest he’s not up for any fun and games. “Be wise, Beau,” he says, his voice full of warning. I keep my eyes on him as I stand on the threshold of the elevator, my memory providing me details of every inch of this lobby. Where the desk is. The mirrors on the wall. The lights on the ceiling. The chairs and how they’re positioned.

  And the fire escape door to the left.

  I bolt, running as fast as my legs will carry me to the fire door and pushing my way through, ignoring the searing pain in my arm from moving so fast and abruptly.

  “Beau!” he bellows, his big feet stomping after me. I stop, just for a moment to assess my options. There’s only one.

  Down.

  I take the steps fast down one flight and burst into an underground parking garage. An underground parking garage with only two cars in it. One is Dolly. This whole block, over thirty floors, and just two cars? Two cars and no way through the metal gates keeping them retained. “Shit.” I hear Otto’s charging feet getting louder, closer, and all out of options, I get behind the door, plastering my back to the wall, holding my breath. The moment he bulldozes through, I slip around the wood and sprint back up the stairs to the lobby, my heart smashing dangerously, my speed fueled only by adrenalin.

  I make it out onto the street. It’s the middle of the day. Busy. People everywhere. My adrenalin subsides and makes way for panic. “No,” I say sternly, looking back over my shoulder, seeing Otto run back into the lobby. His eyes fall onto me. His furious expression is the biggest kick up the ass I need to get me moving.

  I jog to the end of the street and dip around the corner, crossing the road and disappearing down an alley. My cell is ringing off the hook.

  And something comes to me.

  I stop and look down at the screen.

  And turn it off.

  52

  JAMES

  “I lost her,” Otto pants down the line. “I’m getting too old to play chase.”

  “Fuck!” I swing around and smash my fist into the brick wall, splitting my knuckles. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Watch Butler.” I shake my hand off and cut the call, pulling up my tracking app. She’s turned off her phone. The rage. Oh, the fucking rage. It puts all other previous fury to shame. I stuff my phone in my back pocket and go to the boot of my car as I yank my gloves on and pull my balaclava over my head, before swiping up the rifle. I load it as I pace through the derelict factory, my jaw going into spasm, my pores sweating . . . fear. It’s fear.

  I lost her. Otto fucking lost her. Impossible. Laughable. But I’m no
t laughing. I’m in no mood for the intended, stealth approach. These men will die. Now. No mercy. I kick the iron door open, aim and fire, putting a bullet clean between the eyes of my first target. It’s not the slow, painful death I had planned. But it’ll have to do. I have more important matters to deal with. I move my aim, passing the down-and-out who’s in the corner, his arms in the air, one of my Marlboros hanging off his bottom lip. Three more goons scramble for cover, their amateur shooting skills having them blasting bullets randomly.

  Fucking Russian dickheads.

  I pick each of them off one by one without moving a foot.

  And I am done.

  I turn and walk away, pulling my balaclava off to get some air. I need air. I need to breathe.

  But that won’t happen until Beau is back with me.

  53

  BEAU

  By the time the cab has battled its way through midday traffic, an hour has passed and I’m late. I see Nath sitting outside, focused on his phone. I pay the driver and hurry to him. “Hey,” I puff, still short of breath after dodging Otto. I take a seat and Nath exhales heavily.

  “I was worried.” He flashes his cell. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “I’m a half hour late,” I point out, raising an eyebrow as I collect the water he’s ordered me, absolutely parched. I swig and gasp. “You went radio silent for hours.”

  “What’s going on?” He looks across the table at me in alarm as I guzzle the rest of the water down ravenously. “Did you run here?”

  I shake my head, still drinking, unable to get enough.

  “And are your clothes wet?” His eyes drop down my shirt. “Your buttons are undone.”

  I place the bottle on the table and start fastening the buttons I missed in my haste, awkwardly trying to sort myself out with one hand. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

  Doubtful eyes fall to the sling holding up my newly broken wrist.

  “Don’t even think what I think you’re thinking,” I warn.

  “What am I thinking?” he fires, settling back in his chair.

  “Tell me what you found out about Mom.”

  “Nothing.”

  I recoil. “Then why the hell am I here?” I look past Nath when someone approaches behind him, and my heart starts to beat double time. “What’s Ollie doing here, Nath?” I ask, my hackles rising, every hair standing on end. I don’t like the look on either of their faces.

  “Did he do that to you, Beau?” Nath asks, and it all becomes clear. Is that what his call was all about? He left me thinking, hoping, praying he’d found out something about Mom’s car being at the dealership, and the whole fucking time he was planning an intervention? All I need is for Dad, Lawrence, and Dexter to show up, and we’ll have a full house.

  “Are you for real?” I ask, standing abruptly, sending the metal chair flying back. “You’ve dragged me here to ask if my boyfriend broke my fucking arm? Is that what you think I’ve become? That weak? That desperate?”

  “I looked into him, Beau.” Ollie stops at the edge of the table, looking down at me. My heart goes from double time to triple time. “James Kelly didn’t exist until five years ago.”

  I stare at my ex, flummoxed. “You had no right to do that.” I’m not shocked by his declaration. I’m simply pissed off that they’ve taken it upon themselves to pry. Deep down, I had a feeling their search would either turn up nothing or turn up a record longer than my broken fucking arm.

  “You were born in England.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you been in the States?”

  “Five years.”

  Five years. And his company has probably only been in existence that long too.

  “He’s not who he says he is,” Nath continues. “He’s deceiving you, Beau. Lying to you. Why would he do that?”

  “Then who is he?” I spit, furious, my mouth firing words before my brain can engage. “If he’s not who he says he is, who the fuck is he?” I need to shut the hell up.

  “Probably a guy who got sent down for domestic abuse and legally changed his name when he got out.”

  I drop my head back, looking at the sky, gathering patience. How many times have I got to tell them? “James did not break my arm.” I breathe in deeply, all out of patience, and calmly push my chair in. Nath won’t find anything on my mom. I know that now. And Ollie? He’s just pushed me too far. “I don’t want to see you again.” I look at Ollie. “Either of you.”

  “Beau, come on,” Ollie pleads, reaching for me. “We’re just looking out for you. You’re vulnerable.”

  “No!” I yell, shrugging him off and storming away. “Just leave me alone.” I’m dizzy with rage, confusion, my head about to detonate.

  When I round the corner, I come to a stop, resting against the wall, trying to get my labored breathing under control. I turn on my phone. Endless missed calls and a text from Dexter, asking where I am. I close my eyes. “I don’t know where I am,” I say to myself. “Or where the fuck I’m going.”

  I exhale. It’s long and defeated, as my thumb works across the screen, telling him I’m okay. That I’m on my way. Then I turn it off again.

  There are no records on James. He didn’t exist until five years ago.

  Excessive security.

  His other name.

  The opera house.

  In too deep.

  Enigma.

  54

  JAMES

  Goldie can’t find her. Otto can’t find her.

  I can’t fucking find her.

  Goldie is watching Beau’s uncle’s place. Nothing. I’ve wandered the supermarket for an hour. Nothing.

  I pace my office, up and down, the screens drowning the space with a bright rainbow of lights. I haven’t even the will to amend the status of my latest hits.

  “Fuck, Beau, where the fuck are you, baby?” I rake a hand through my hair as I slump into my chair and close my eyes, wracking my brain. I see her mother. The sheer determination on her face. Her voice down the line whenever we spoke. Her words, words of conviction.

  I will find you. I will finish you.

  I snap my eyes open quickly, and I’m out of my chair like a rocket, sprinting down to get my keys. I’m out the door fast and soon speeding toward the old church.

  When I pull up in the lay-by on the lane toward the church, the biggest, blackest cloud is creeping over, casting a shadow over the graveyard. The sky looks like it could open at any moment. I see a cab sitting in the lane, the driver reading a paper. My phone pings an alert, and I open it, seeing Beau’s turned her phone back on. She wants me to find her. “Already did, baby,” I murmur, getting out, not bothering to check her exact location. I can smell her, her fragrance mixing with the heavy, clean scent of the impending rain. I make my way down the paved pathway, the ancient slabs cracked and uneven, not a single stone in one piece. The metal gate into the graveyard is twisted and rusty. It’s sad and dreary. Everything a graveyard should be.

  I let myself through and find her immediately, sitting before a gray marble headstone, her arm wrapped around her knees, hugging them. Weaving around the graves, crushing the long grass with my boots as I go, I keep my eyes on the blurry words of Beau’s mother’s headstone until the inscription is clear. I come to a stop and read it. Three times. And that day two years ago is as real now.

  “Tell me who you are,” Beau says quietly, not looking back.

  “To you or them?”

  “To me.”

  To her. Most importantly, who am I to her? I move in and lower behind her, framing her seated form with my thighs. I wrap my arms around her upper body and pull her into me, placing my mouth at her ear. She doesn’t resist. “To you, I’m freedom.”

  “Hello, freedom,” she whispers, and I swallow, relaxing, as she starts to turn in my arms. I release her, just enough to let her, and she kneels before me, taking my arms from around her back one at a time. Her eyes meet mine. Resolute. “I’m ready to know who you are. Are you rea
dy to tell me?”

  I nod, even though I know and accept that I can’t tell her everything. “Will you leave?” It’s an unfair question, and, crazily, it feels like telling her I’m a killer will be the easy part. Because she’s worked that out for herself. And, whether I wanted to or not, I helped her along the way to enlightenment. I’m still unsure why. Maybe because I see life beyond death and revenge with this woman. Am I capable of that? And do I deserve it?

  “I don’t want to,” she whispers.

  I guess that’s all I can ask for. “Let me take you home.”

  “You mean to your home,” she says, staring at me with so much acceptance in her eyes, I honestly don’t know what to do with it.

  “My home.”

  She nods and stands, looking at me and offering her good hand. I take it tentatively and she tugs, as if her small frame and strength actually contributes to pulling me up.

  I tuck her into my side and walk us out of the graveyard. “The cab,” she says, pointing. “I told him to leave the meter running.”

  “I’ll sort it.” I deposit her in the passenger seat of my car before wandering over to the cab, pulling off some notes and handing them over.

  “There’s a bag on the back seat,” he says, motioning over his shoulder.

  I frown and look back to Beau. She’s daydreaming, staring out of the window. I reach for the paper bag, open it, and freeze. “What the—?” I stare at the box for an eternity, trying to turn it into something else. Anything else. A minute later, I’m still gazing at a pregnancy test. “Oh Jesus,” I whisper, my mind not telling me what the fuck to do. I pull it out of the bag and stuff it in the back of my jeans, slamming the door of the cab and pacing back to my car, my head fucking bent.

  I slip in beside her. Regard her closely. She’s despondent. Distant. “Where did you go?” I ask, starting the car and crawling along the gravel lane. A fucking pregnancy test?