End Game

by Lisa Renee Jones

  But reality returns, and I can feel our battle before this escape return with it. Emily’s hands press to my shoulders and she leans back to look at me. “This ends now. A new future. A new start.”

  “That’s what I’m doing. Creating a new future. A safe one.”

  “By going up against a drug cartel? You can’t win that war. Even if Adrian is dead, his father lives. His father will come after us. And don’t tell me you’ll kill him too. There will always be someone after him.”

  “Adrian is the one focused on us.”

  “Until you kill him,” she says. “Then it’s his father. And after his father, someone else. You need a plan to get him out of your business. Don’t kill him and piss off his father.”

  “He’s the reason my brother died and the reason you almost died.”

  “So this is about revenge.”

  “He’s the reason my brother died and the reason you almost died,” I repeat.

  “Your brother is the reason your brother died. You know this. You’ve said this to me. This is your grief and anger talking, and that is a dangerous place to be.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Right. And so do I now, I guess.” She scrambles off me, grabs her clothes, and runs up the stairs.

  I inhale, giving myself and her a moment to come down from the high of sex, grief, and our argument, because the truth of the matter is, I’m not sure what to say to her. I will kill Adrian Martina, and I feel not one bit of remorse or hesitation on the matter. But now I think I was selfish to tell Emily. I should never have put this burden on her, but to take it off now, I’d have to lie, and lies are my parents’ life and breath in misery together. I’m not doing that to us.

  Pushing to my feet, righting my pants before I grab my clothes, I follow her upstairs. Entering the bedroom, I can hear her in the bathroom, and I walk to the closet, toss my clothes into the hamper, and pull on a T-shirt. Entering the bedroom, Emily’s still not here, and I walk to the bathroom, only to have her appear in the doorway, now wearing her sweat suit.

  We stare at each other, the air thick with our conflict, that wall back between us. “I know you don’t understand…” I begin.

  “I understand just fine. But know this, Shane. If you kill him. I will leave you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Anger comes at me hard and fast, and my hands are on Emily’s waist in an instant, my body walking her body into the bathroom, where I lift her and set her on the sink. My hands come down on the counter on either side of her. “That isn’t how this works. You don’t get to leave when things get tough. You don’t get to leave when you’re angry or when we disagree. We fight. We disagree. We don’t leave.”

  “This isn’t a fight. This is murder, Shane, and it leads to no place good.”

  “He’s a murderer. I’m doing the world a favor.”

  “Help the police take him down then.”

  “All that does is get us more attention with the cartel. Adrian needs to die.”

  “You’re in a dangerous place, Shane. You’re thinking with your emotions. And that’s not you. See past your need for revenge to a real solution. End it, Shane, and that doesn’t mean ending Adrian Martina.”

  I inhale and push off the counter, my hand sliding through my hair, my gaze lifting skyward. Is she right? Am I consumed by anger and pain to the point that I can’t see clearly? Is my version of control actually the definition of being out of control?

  “Derek was jealous of you,” she says, drawing my gaze. “And I read once, and it seems true now, that jealousy is a sharp object that eventually draws blood and leaves a deep wound. Don’t let vengeance become yours. I can’t bury you too.”

  “And yet you would leave me?”

  “I will do anything to get you to think about what you’re doing. Anything. And if I have to leave you to save you, then yes. I will.”

  The doorbell rings, and I ignore it. “If you leave, I’ll come after you, just like I did before. I know you know that.”

  “Maybe that will give you something other than murder to think about.”

  We stare at each other, a challenge between us, the air charged and damn near combustible. I take a step toward her as the doorbell rings again. “Damn it,” I say, my hands back on the counter on either side of her.

  “You have to get it,” she says, her hands on my shoulders. “Only our security team and your father can even get up here.”

  “I know,” I concede, straightening, my palm settling on her face. “We will figure this out, but you aren’t leaving me. Say it.”

  “Shane—”

  “Say it, damn it, because today isn’t the day to tell me you’re leaving me.”

  “Oh God,” she whispers, her hand going to mine at her face. “You’re right. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to lose you. I’m just—”

  I kiss her hard and fast, and then promise, “We will figure this out,” before releasing her and exiting the bathroom.

  I’m downstairs and at the front door in less than a minute, opening it to find Seth as our visitor. “I know this is a bad night,” Seth says. “But this is important.”

  Considering Seth doesn’t take the word “important” lightly, I back up and allow him to enter, shutting us inside. He doesn’t wait for me to invite him into the apartment to get to the point. “This is time sensitive,” he says. “I know I told you it would take a month to set up the façade of Emily’s death, but it turns out Nick had already been getting ready for this option.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “We have a Jane Doe that fits her description sixty miles from her hometown and less than an hour to claim her as Emily.”

  Footsteps sound, and Seth and I rotate to find Emily at the bottom of the stairs. “Claim her?” she asks. “What does that mean?”

  “For starters,” Seth says at her arrival, “we’ll connect her to you in the law enforcement databases by way of dental records and fingerprints.”

  “And I just become this dead woman?” Emily asks, hugging herself.

  “Essentially, yes,” Seth confirms. “And since this woman has been dead for two weeks, right when you lost contact with your brother, we’ll hack the bus system and make it look like you returned home in that timeline.”

  “But this Jane Doe has a real identity,” Emily worries. “What about her family?”

  “She’s actually not a Jane Doe,” Seth amends. “She’s a hooker with no family, and a history of drug abuse.”

  “But you said she’s a Jane Doe,” Emily argues, her fingers wrapping around the banister, and I don’t miss the whitening of her knuckles.

  “That was the initial hit on the law enforcement paperwork,” Seth explains. “Nick’s team intercepted it and found out who she really is, but someone else will too, and soon. We need to act now.”

  “No one cares she’s dead?” Emily presses.

  “She has no family or personal connections that we’ve located,” Seth says. “Which is why we’re moving on this, and quickly. If we’re a go on this, we’ll connect the dots to you tonight and leak stories to the press about you being found dead. By morning you’ll be all over the local news of your hometown.”

  “And then we hope my brother shows up,” she supplies.

  “Yes,” Seth says. “Then we wait and watch.”

  “And if he doesn’t show up,” Emily says, “we assume he’s dead or he just doesn’t care enough to show up.”

  “No,” I say, quick to note the hurt in her voice that I want to wipe away. “That isn’t the case. He’s smart. He could well decide not to risk his life by showing up when he thinks that you’re already gone.”

  “Thanks for that,” she says, glancing over at me, “but I know who and what he is, just like you did with Derek.” She looks at Seth. “If he shows up, then what?”

  “We track him,” Seth says. “We monitor him. We know where he is from that point forward, and therefore we keep him, and you, s
afe.”

  “But he might not show up,” she says. “And then we are back to square one.”

  “No,” I say. “Because he and the Geminis won’t have a reason to look for you anymore. They’ll think you’re dead.”

  “But what about my current name? My brother set that up. I’m still using it.”

  “He believes you left Denver,” I say.

  “Correct,” Seth inserts. “And to recap what I put in the file I gave you after we fine-tuned the identity he only partially created: we changed your social when I got involved, and rebuilt your file. I used contacts I have in the government who owed me a favor to ensure your payroll records reflect the social we set up. Additionally, we added a middle initial and sold the social he created to a counterfeit operation that has used it now in three states. You’re dead to him, Emily.”

  “Right,” she says. “I’m dead. That’s kind of surreal.”

  “And good,” I say.

  “And good,” she repeats. “I know. It’s good.” She looks between us. “How long do you think it will be before we know if he’ll show up?”

  “If he’s going to show, I think it will be within a small window,” Seth says, “but we’ll monitor any activity indefinitely.”

  “Okay” is all she says, turning to me, those shadows I’ve seen too often recently back in her eyes again. “I’m good with this if you are?”

  “I am,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says again. “I’m going to let you finish up the details. I’ll be on the patio.” She doesn’t wait for a reply, and I don’t miss the crack in her voice.

  “Are we a go?” Seth asks.

  “How are we keeping Rick alive?”

  “We’ll have men on the ground in her hometown in a few hours.”

  “All right then,” I say. “Yes. Go. And update me in a few hours.”

  He gives a nod and leaves. I lock up, my hand freezing on the knob as I replay my conversation with Emily earlier: You’re thinking with your emotions. And that’s not you.

  She’s right. It’s not me. And yes, killing Adrian will give me a sense of satisfaction, and yes, the world would be safer without him, but will my family be safer? Will Emily be safer? The answer is maybe not. And I can’t live with a maybe that could get Emily killed, which means I can’t kill Martina. And Emily needs to hear that right now.

  I leave the foyer and head to the patio, finding Emily at the railing, the night air cold, the heater off. I flip it on and close the space between us, stepping to her side. “You’re worried about your brother,” I say, facing her.

  “Yes,” she says, rotating toward me, her elbow on the railing. “I’m worried about my brother, but at the same time, I’m angry that he’s left us with this hammer over our heads that could drop at any time. I want him to stop being a problem. I want him to stay away and yet I want him to be alive. It’s really very confusing.”

  “Love and family rarely connect by way of logic.”

  “Kind of like the need for vengeance in the face of pain?”

  “Yes. Exactly. You’re right about what you said in the bathroom.”

  “What does that mean, Shane?”

  “Adrian wants to go legit. He wants to be on my level. If I am smart about how I deal with him, and I will be, he won’t be a problem.”

  “But you just said you had to kill him to protect us.”

  “More like, I prefer to kill him.”

  “Shane—”

  I shackle her waist and pull her to me. “I’m not going to kill him, Emily. I’m going to close the deal for the sports center, seal up his relationship with Mike Rogers, and if all goes as planned, we’ll have our end game with him, and your brother, in a week.”

  “Can it just be over now? It’s going to feel like a very long week.”

  “Yes,” I agree, “it is, but when it’s over, the past will no longer represent that hammer you mentioned, waiting to fall. The past will be nothing more than the past.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Wednesday morning, the day after I’ve buried my brother, death isn’t done with us.

  I wake with Emily snuggled against my side, and a text message from Seth: Reagan Morgan is dead. I click the link he’s sent me to find an article on Reagan from a local Texas news organization, with a photo of Emily with blonde hair. I read through the detail and discover no real surprises, or mention of suspects—just typical news reporting, though I do find myself staring at the old image of Emily that is not that old at all. Not so long ago, that version of the woman I love aspired to law school and a life in a courtroom, just as not that long ago I had called law my career. The difference though is that I walked away from mine by choice, while hers was stripped away, and today, when she wakes up, it’s official: she will never be Reagan again. I’m not sure how anyone faces something like that and doesn’t feel the blow, even if it’s what they ultimately want.

  Beside me, Emily begins to stir, and that moment of revelation for her is about to arrive. She stretches and rises up on her elbow, blinks at me and exhales. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

  I sit up and take her with me, both of us leaning against the headboard as I hand her my phone with the news piece on the screen. For a full minute, maybe two, she studies it, and the only comment she has when she’s done is a question. “Anything on my Rick?”

  “Seth would tell us if there were,” I say. My concern is her. “Let’s talk about you right now. How do you feel?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, sounding genuinely baffled. “I don’t think I feel anything.” She glances at the phone again, expanding the photo and holding it up by her face. “This isn’t me,” she says, pointing at the image before eyeing it again. “You know, I use to wish I could be blonde again. But now I don’t.”

  “Give it some time for all of this to pass,” I say. “But be blonde if you want to be blonde. No one will be looking for you anymore.”

  “That’s just it. I don’t want to be blonde again. That’s Reagan. She was the law student who aspired to win every case she fought in a courtroom. She worried about her brother and loved her single-girl apartment. I’m Emily. I want to start a fashion brand. I still worry about my brother, of course. I can’t help that, but I also love our apartment. I love us. So I guess, really, as angry as I am at my brother, I owe him some thanks as well.”

  I pull her close and lay us back down, stroking hair from her eyes. “I have a new appreciation for your brother,” I say. “I thought you’d be upset.”

  “Why would I be upset?”

  “You’re leaving part of yourself behind.”

  “My mother and father are gone,” she says. “My brother too, in a different way. Everything I love and need is here now.”

  My phone, still in her hand, chooses that moment to buzz with a text message. “That could be about my brother,” she says, bolting upright to check the message herself, followed by a disappointed, “or not.” I sit up next to her and she hands me the phone. “Your father’s already at work.” She glances at the time. “At six in the morning.”

  “Of course he is,” I say dryly. “Today’s the day we announce the buyout to Mike. We didn’t talk about him being there, but I should have known he wasn’t going to miss that. I need to get to work before Mike decides to show up and the two of them bump heads.” I throw off the blanket and head to the closet.

  “No more black,” Emily says, joining me by the drawer. “The healing has to start, and you can’t dress for a funeral on a day like today.” She studies my selection and reaches for the same gray-and-blue-striped Burberry tie she’s chosen for me before. “I love this one on you,” she adds. “It says power and finesse to me.”

  My phone rings from where I’ve left it on the nightstand. “Apparently everyone is early today,” I murmur, exiting the closet to grab my phone. I glance at the number and find Emily anxiously watching me.

  “Relax, sweetheart,” I say, letting the call end to focus on her. “It’s one of
the investors in the sports center.”

  “Right. Sorry. I’m just worried about—”

  “Your brother,” I supply, remembering how she jolted upright with the text message a few minutes before. “I can see that, but today is not the day he dies.”

  “I hope not,” she says firmly, as is she’s convincing herself that she means it. “Call the investor back and close that deal. I’ll grab what you need and hang it in the bathroom.” She disappears into the closet and I stare after her, wishing like hell I could make that end game we’re after come right now, today, but realistically, it’s going to be at least that week I predicted last night.

  Refocusing on my call, I redial the investor and talk out the new sports center offer with him. Ten minutes later I disconnect, only to realize that Emily has yet to emerge from the closet. Walking in that direction, I step through the archway to find her removing a black dress from the rack. “I thought today wasn’t a day to wear black?”

  “I know, but Reagan died today. And that woman they identified as me. She died two weeks ago, and no one seems to care. So I care.”

  I close the small space between us and take the black dress from her, hanging it back on the rack and retrieving a pale pink one. And now it’s my turn to say, “This one suits you. You said no black today,” I remind her. “I say no more death today.”

  “Unless today really is the day my brother dies.”

  My hand cups her cheek. “He isn’t going to die today, sweetheart.”

  “If only you could promise that.”

  “I can’t promise,” I agree, “but we have one hell of a team making sure he doesn’t. We have to trust them.”

  “And so we’re back to waiting.”

  “Not waiting. Acting. We make it happen.”

  “But we wait to find out if my brother will show up.”

  “Our team is not waiting. They’re looking for him.”

  “While I wait,” she says. “Feeling helpless.” She blows out air. “At least I have your father today.”

  My brow furrows. “Why is that?”

  “He’s a beast of a distraction considering it’s all about him and his wants and needs, both of which are always immediate. He won’t give me time to think about anything but his demands.”