Shadows & Silence: A Wild Bunch Novel

by London Miller

  She skipped over the rest of the details until she reached the man’s face or, at least, his profile.

  He wasn’t a man, she realized, but a boy. Older than her by several years—probably as old as her cousin who’d gone off to college last year—but he wasn’t a man.

  His ears had holes in them, she thought, until she squinted her eyes and just saw the light sheen of metal. Were they stretched that big?

  Different. He was different.

  She was fascinated.

  He strayed from his friends, walking farther in her direction, though she was sure he hadn’t noticed her yet. Instead, he sat a table over with his back against the wall and his hands tucked into his pockets.

  His lips were moving, and his eyes slid shut briefly but not for longer than a few seconds.

  Was he … talking to himself?

  What had her uncle always told her about people who talked to themselves?

  Ten pounds of crazy in a five-pound bag.

  “Hey, mister? Are you crazy?”

  Winter slapped a hand over her mouth, not having meant to ask the question aloud—especially not when he’d obviously heard her as his lips stopped moving and his eyes dropped to where she was sitting.

  She expected him to get angry like others so often did when she spoke without thinking, but instead, his head canted to the side the way her old dog, Rufus, used to do when he saw a squirrel.

  A heartbeat passed, a second, then he was smiling a ghost of a smile that made her feel ridiculously happy.

  “Jury’s still out on that one, luv. What’s a little thing like you doing in here?” he asked, and that quickly, she was enthralled.

  Never had she heard an accent like his, one that seemed to mull over each word that left his mouth.

  All warnings about talking to strangers in the bar flew out the window. “I’m making sure my uncle stays out of trouble,” she said with a shrug of her shoulder.

  The mysterious man rested his elbows on the table as he leaned toward her, hair the color of an oil slick falling over his forehead. “This ain’t a place for you, though, is it?”

  Winter shrugged, not really understanding what he meant by the question. “If you want to order something, you’ll have to go to the bar, you know.” She pointed at where her uncle was standing, having not noticed them.

  His smile stayed firmly fixed on his face. “I think I’m good here, thanks.”

  She didn’t want to let the conversation die. “Are you waiting for your friends?” she asked.

  “Can’t say I have any of those, little miss.”

  “Not even the ones you came in with?”

  He shrugged.

  “Everyone needs a friend,” she went on, pausing a beat. “I could totally be your friend.”

  She didn’t have very many, and if he didn’t have any at all, then maybe they could be each other’s.

  Maybe, Winter thought a few minutes later as she slid from under the table and actually sat at one of the tables, they were always meant to be friends.

  He was nice.

  A little weird with the way his gaze constantly scanned the room, but nice all the same.

  “I’m Winter, just so you know.”

  His smile tipped up at one corner as he inclined his head. “Syn.”

  “Wicked.”

  He tapped his fingers against the table. “Friends forgive friends, no?”

  She frowned at the question, not understanding. “Of course.”

  It was easy sitting next to him, prattling on about anything she could think of. He didn’t respond much—not that she minded—and it wasn’t until the pub started emptying that she noticed how Syn sat up a little straighter.

  The clock struck 11:14.

  She didn’t think she had ever seen that time displayed before, and maybe she was so aware of it because Syn plucked the pencil from behind her ear.

  “Could I borrow this, luv?” he asked, though he already had it in his hand.

  Confusion flitted across her face, but she didn’t mind letting him have it—it wasn’t as if she was using it.

  He flipped it around between his fingers without once letting it fall, but even as deftly as he did it, he didn’t take his eyes away from the newcomer who had walked into the pub.

  He wore the same sort of leather jacket with the logo on the back as Syn did, but something was off about him. His expression was grim, and beyond the black clothing he wore, his shaved head only made him seem darker.

  Winter tried to get a better look at him but froze when Syn’s hand on top of her head stopped her.

  “Erilio wants his money.”

  Uncle Steve’s gaze darted in her direction, and she saw a trace of fear there. She was so used to him being able to talk his way out of anything, but this wasn’t a time when he could.

  “I’ve got most of it. Just give me a little time, and I’ll get you the rest.”

  “Mmm, that’s not how this works.”

  Before he could say anything else, the man pulled out a shiny silver gun—the biggest Winter had ever seen. She wished she could have done something—anything, but she was frozen in place.

  Too afraid to move.

  Too afraid to even think.

  But Syn was there—as much a stranger as he was her protector.

  “That’s not the job. Take the bag and let’s get moving, Digger.”

  The man, Digger, didn’t lower his weapon, but he did look in Syn’s direction. “You’ve gotten soft.”

  If he was trying to bait him, it didn’t work. “Finish the job.”

  Digger laughed. “And if I don’t?”

  Winter glanced at Syn before dropping her gaze to the pencil he was still holding.

  Uncle Steve looked back and forth between them before finishing bagging the money and pushing it across the bar top. “Three days, that’s all I need. I’ll have his money.”

  “Good,” Digger said, relief coursing through Winter as he picked up the bag. “But that won’t help you now.”

  A split second was all it took for Winter’s life to flash before her eyes.

  A second before Digger fired and a bullet plugged through Steve’s forehead and shattered the mirror behind him.

  With the blood rushing in her ears, she didn’t hear her own screams as her uncle slumped to the floor, his eyes still wide.

  But she felt herself screaming even as the hot tracks of tears running down her face blurred her vision.

  “Take care of the girl.”

  Syn didn’t budge. “Not going to happen.”

  “She’s seen our faces. You know the rules,” the other stated dispassionately.

  Yet still, Syn didn’t move from his position in front of her.

  “Fine,” Digger said marching toward them. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

  He didn’t get within a foot of her, though, before Syn went from motionless to … something else.

  She only saw the first sharp thrust of the pencil he embedded in Digger’s neck before she squeezed her eyes shut.

  But she could hear everything.

  There was no blocking out the wet, sickly noises the men made as they gurgled and choked on their own blood, but not once were either of them able to get a shot off.

  Winter knew before she opened her eyes they would be dead, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of Syn standing there, soaked in blood with a bloody pencil in his hand.

  Seeing him and knowing her uncle was dead on the floor behind the bar made her burst into tears, sobs wracking her chest.

  “Hey there, don’t cry,” Syn whispered, brushing her tears away. “I’m not good with tears.”

  But they wouldn’t stop, and as she looked up at the shattered mirror where her uncle had been staring, she could see the bloody streaks on her from where Syn brushed her sadness away.

  Maybe that story was a little heavier than she meant it to be—she could practically feel Răzvan’s gaze boring into the side of her face—but she c
ouldn’t look at him.

  She was a talker, or more aptly, she overshared about everything, but she hadn’t realized how recounting her tragedy would make her feel. It was a story she rarely told.

  Too personal.

  Too heartbreaking.

  Even she wouldn’t know what to say if someone unloaded on her like that, and now that she thought about it, she hadn’t actually answered his question.

  Clearing her throat, she placed her plate on the table. “After … Syn placed me with this family in Arizona, and he disappeared for a bit.”

  Răzvan was quiet for so long she wondered if he would ever respond, but finally, he asked a question of his own. —Syn. Where is he now?—

  “London. He doesn’t come across the pond very often.” If ever.

  —But he came to save you? A girl he didn’t know?—

  “It’s complicated.”

  There was no other word to describe her relationship with Syn.

  Others had asked why Syn had saved her that day—why he’d been willing to risk it all when he hadn’t even known her name before that very moment.

  Winter didn’t know why either.

  “Anyway,” Winter said with a shaky laugh, “what were your parents like?” She desperately wanted to get off the topic of her and Syn and everything about them.

  But as the question hung between them, she almost wished she hadn’t asked it from the way his expression changed from one of concern to one of barely concealed pain.

  It was easy to ask about the little things—his favorite food, his favorite color, and what he might like to do outside his work with The Wild Bunch—but the things that mattered … those weren’t easy at all.

  His hands lifted, but he didn’t get a chance to respond before his phone buzzed, drawing both of their attention to it.

  —Maybe next time.—

  Once he looked down at the screen, he passed her his phone, waiting for her to read the alert that had appeared.

  “Holy shit,” she said, looking up at him, her earlier melancholy momentarily forgotten. “They actually moved the server.”

  Răzvan nodded. —Now it’s time to steal it.—

  Chapter 8

  Tucked behind a laptop, Winter never had to worry about what she was wearing when she was in the middle of a job.

  Most of the time, she was in pajamas with three-day old hair and mustard stains on her shirt.

  Tonight, though, she wasn’t dressing for comfort—she dressed for efficiency.

  She wore a thick pair of leggings—easier to move in than her skinny jeans—and a matching black tank top that was fitted but breathable. Coupled with her trusty Docs, she looked the part.

  And felt pretty badass.

  By the time she was venturing downstairs and out of her apartment building, Răzvan was waiting for her, leaning against his bike with his muscular arms folded across his chest.

  Black shirt and pants. Military boots.

  They matched.

  His gaze swept over her from head to toe and back again.

  “Oh, don’t look so surprised, Răz. I may only be a hacker, but I’m the hacker.”

  She was starting to love that amused smile on his lips—his entire face softened when he smiled.

  —Are you ready for this?—

  “Haven’t you heard?” Winter asked, accepting the hand he extended her. “I’ve been ready.”

  —Then let’s go.—

  The city sped by as they headed toward the rendezvous point where Ollie, Tessa, and Nicole would be waiting.

  It wasn’t long before they were parking and he was walking her up the set of concrete steps and opening the door for her.

  Once through, they walked the lengthy hallway until they reached the office they needed.

  Winter was the first through the door, Răzvan following right behind, but she might as well have been invisible with all the attention she was paid.

  She’d forgotten they weren’t privy to the sight he made in his gear.

  Not that she could really blame them—he looked formidable when he wasn’t in jeans and a T-shirt.

  “He’s like a walking wet dream,” Tessa murmured as she stopped at Winter’s side, her eyes on Răzvan.

  She knew exactly what she meant.

  Răzvan was glorious on any given day, but when he was decked out in his gear and had that serious face on while he worked, he went way beyond that.

  But they weren’t the only two to notice.

  Nicole didn’t waste any time walking over to talk to him, though Răzvan hardly paid her any attention. That fact shouldn’t have filled her with as much joy as it did.

  It didn’t even make sense that she was feeling possessive of him.

  Their relationship, if she could even call it that, was brand new.

  And flirting didn’t count.

  But she couldn’t deny she was interested, even before London. There was just something about him she couldn’t ignore, and why should she?

  She was an adult now and didn’t need to ask Syn’s permission for who she could date or hang around with.

  “We should get going,” Winter called out.

  “Absolutely,” Ollie came over to them with a wide grin. “I’ll drive. You can—”

  Răzvan straightened then, his gaze narrowing on Ollie as if what he said offended him. —She’s with me.—

  Ollie didn’t seem to need a translation for that from just the expression on Răzvan’s face. “Or not.”

  “Tăcut and I’ll take the building. You guys keep everything else running smoothly from the van.”

  With the way Răzvan reacted, there was no argument there as they left the building, but before they reached Răzvan’s bike, she touched his arm.

  “A kiss for good luck?” she asked with a smile, fully expecting him to ignore the request.

  But he didn’t.

  He cupped her cheek and yanked her forward, pressing his lips to hers. It wasn’t a peck by any stretch of the imagination—he kissed her like he was starving for her and she’d just given him permission to take what he wanted.

  She only froze for half a second before she was kissing him back, allowing herself this moment to give in to something she had only ever thought about.

  Răzvan seemed like he would be easy, gentle even, but the way he kissed her, she felt it down to her bones.

  A throat cleared behind them, but he didn’t release until he was ready, and when he did, she sucked in a much-needed breath, feeling like her heart was about to explode out of her chest.

  He smiled at the reaction before passing her a helmet. —Feeling lucky?—

  The starless sky provided the perfect backdrop as they rode through the nearly empty streets toward the Fulton building in midtown.

  She had felt nervous, but every time her anxiety about what they were about to do rose inside her, she only had to flex her arms around Răzvan to remind herself there was nothing to worry about.

  “Ready when you guys are,” Ollie said over the earpiece, failing to hide the giddiness in his voice.

  Of course, he could be giddy. He wasn’t doing the hard part.

  “Roger that,” Winter said back, rolling her eyes when Răzvan smirked at her.

  Smartass.

  Outside the door, he made quick work of the lock, getting the door open in seconds before nodding for her to go ahead of him.

  “Security feeds are taken care of.”

  Nerves shouldn’t have been getting the best of her, not when she’d seen a few breaking and enterings up close and personal, but it was different when she was the one committing the act—when she was the one carefully moving through brightly lit back hallways wondering when, at any moment, a security guard could appear.

  During her research, this building should have been the more secure between the two, yet the last had security roaming the halls on a constant rotation. This one, on the other hand, she had yet to see a guard of any sort.

  Răzvan had been right af
ter all.

  Just as she rounded a corner, he snatched her back, slapping his hand over her mouth before a startled yelp could leave her mouth. In seconds, he had them in a shadowed corner, just out of view of the guard making his rounds. The brief glance the guard shot down the hall didn’t catch them.

  Maybe she’d spoken too soon.

  —Sorry,— she signed to which he nodded, but instead of her going first again, he walked ahead of her. Though he did make sure she was behind him the entire time.

  She couldn’t fathom it.

  He not only was aware of everything happening around them and staying vigilant, but he was also making sure she was okay.

  “The server room should be coming up on your left,” Ollie said over the earpiece, sounding every bit as anxious as she felt.

  But the door they came upon now wasn’t like the one they’d had to go through earlier when Răzvan could use tools to get it open.

  Instead, she had to insert one of her key cards and wait for the program she’d coded to unscramble the combination.

  But once the lock clicked open with an audible snap, she smiled in victory before quickly stepping in.

  That victory was short-lived once she found the server they were looking for.

  “Shit.” She ran her hand over the glass, peering at the lock that Răzvan didn’t have the tools to break. “This is a problem.”

  He glanced at her, at least she thought he did when his head turned in her direction before he gestured for her to step aside.

  “You can’t pick—shit, Tăcut!”

  She hadn’t been able to point out he couldn’t pick the lock before he was making a fist and punching the glass with enough force to splinter it.

  The second was enough to break it completely, sending shards raining down on the floor.

  She didn’t mean to stand there and stare at him in wonder, remembering quite vividly the way he’d looked punching the bag her first time at the loft. The force behind it.

  That was nothing compared to now.

  Before he could notice her unabashed appreciation, she darted forward, plugging in her thumb drive and pulling up the program on her tablet.

  “Three minutes,” she whispered to him, waiting for his nod before she focused back on the progress bar and the green slowly eating away at the gray.