Hell Hath No Fury

by RC Boldt

  A male voice breaks through and tells me to stay calm and that I’ll be okay, but I ignore it. I’m far too fixated on my daughter, who is lying alone without me there to hold her.

  The man doesn’t understand. My sweet girl is dying, and I can’t get to her. I can’t go to her and tell her that I love her. She needs to know how much I love her. She needs to hear me say it one more time.

  “Shhh. She knows. I promise, she knows,” the male voice murmurs, his tone pleading as if he’s willing me to believe it. But I don’t. I can’t.

  I’ve been robbed of that final moment with my daughter, and as irrational as it may be, simply hoping she knows how much I love her isn’t enough.

  Something furry and damp nudges my arm, and the man’s voice murmurs indecipherable words to me before I let the darkness overtake me once again.

  42

  Hunter

  Since I moved her to the bed, I continue to monitor her breathing, ensuring it remains normal and nothing changes to indicate an internal injury. She still hasn’t woken even after a few hours. I suspect she’s been running herself ragged and exhaustion has taken hold.

  I hated leaving her to make a quick run to grab Kujo and get some supplies and more meds from my place, but it was necessary after checking her stash and seeing she didn’t have the antibiotics I feel she needs as a safeguard.

  Gripping the tense muscles in the back of my neck, I stare down at her as unease spreads through me. While I was at my place, something made me take an extra few seconds to glance over the crime scene photos from the pawn shop once again.

  I’d scanned each, quickly dismissing them, antsy to head back to her. But a little voice in the back of my mind urged me to look at a particular photo once again, and that’s when I noticed it.

  A few feet away from the little girl, nearly hidden by the rubble of debris, glass, and blood was a small bow.

  Motherfucker. It’d been right in front of me the whole goddamn time. Kate’s been putting her own stamp on these hits in memory of her daughter.

  Then it dawned on me why I had an inkling Doc Hogue wasn’t disclosing everything when I visited him at his clinic.

  “I believe Caitlin died seven years ago.”

  I get it now, why he phrased it the way he did. She’s not the same loving wife and daughter. There are no carefree smiles or happiness etched on her features like in those photographs in the doc’s office. The woman she is now is worlds away from that one—from Caitlin Ashford.

  Her anger and grief encase her like body armor—thick and powerful, ensuring she’s not susceptible to anything that might endanger her. I recognize it because it’s much like the armor I wear.

  The kind I’ve worn since the day I was betrayed and left for dead.

  Kujo nudges my other hand with his nose, bringing me back to the present. He’s been keeping vigil at Kate’s bedside since he got here.

  I pet him, and he gives a little whimper before turning back to watch her. “She’ll be okay, bud. She just needs her rest.”

  Her dark hair fans against the pillow, most of it now free from her ponytail, and the longer I study her features, the more I notice the pronounced dark circles beneath her eyes.

  The universe must really like screwing with me because there’s no other excuse for how Kate—or Caitlin, I suppose—and I crossed paths. It makes sense now, though, why I felt—feel—drawn to her.

  We’re each haunted by our pasts. We’re fighting for vengeance and doing so with the knowledge that the ultimate cost could be our lives.

  I shake my head, pinching the bridge of my nose, and release a sigh. Carefully, I give her an injection of antibiotics in her thigh to help prevent infection in her shoulder wound. As soon as I withdraw the needle and deposit it in the portable sharps container on the bedside table, she lets out a sound of such anguish that it has every muscle in my body freezing in place.

  A moment later, she begins thrashing, evidently caught in some disturbing memories, and I climb on the bed, using the weight of my legs to restrain hers, and carefully grip her upper arms to prevent her from doing damage to her wound.

  “Nooo!” she screams, the single word filled with so much pain, it acts like an iron fist punching me in the solar plexus. “No! Please! Somebody, please help!”

  “It’ll be okay. You’re safe.” I try to soothe her, hoping to draw her from the memories. “You’re okay now.”

  She cries out over and over, and the pure desperation in her voice elicits a foreign ache deep within me. Her features twist in agony, lashes wet from the tears streaming down her face, and I’m struck with a staggering sense of helplessness. I have no fucking clue how to help this woman who’s lost so much.

  “She doesn’t know that I love her!” A sob sounds like it’s viciously torn from her. “I never got to tell her.”

  The crippling anguish in her voice guts me, compelling me to do something completely out of character. I press my lips to her jawline that’s slick from her tears and murmur, “Shhh. She knows. I promise, she knows.”

  Kujo props his front paws on the bed, and I stiffen for fear that he’ll inadvertently hurt her, but he just moves his head to nudge her arm with his nose and gives a little whimper.

  She struggles a bit more before finally slumping against the mattress, and I wait for a beat to ensure she’s no longer caught in the throes of her own memories. Then I carefully ease myself off her and the bed, watching her intently before I grab the restraints in case she experiences another episode.

  Confirming she hasn’t done additional damage to her wound, I fasten the restraints around her wrists and ankles, securing her to the bed. Kujo shifts momentarily to allow me to work around him before settling in beside her, his worried blue eyes locked on her.

  Head resting on his paws, he keeps watch over her. I stroke the fur along his back. “Yeah,” I whisper, my throat growing unusually tight as I study her. “I feel the same way.”

  It makes this even more of a fucking colossal mess since I’m under contract to bring in the person behind the Dixie Mafia hits, and that in and of itself is a goddamn death sentence.

  Releasing a slow breath, I gently smooth back her hair from her face. “Rest. You’re safe now.”

  43

  Hunter

  “Get these goddamn restraints off me!”

  At the hollered words, I shoot a look over at Kujo who sits by his bowl, patiently waiting for me to feed him his dinner. Ignoring the outburst in the other room, I empty the measured amount of food in his bowl, the pieces skittering against the stainless steel.

  Hostility fills her tone when she mutters, “Fucking. Asshole.”

  Sealing the dog food bag and setting it aside, I venture to the bedroom and pause in the doorway. With my shoulder leaning against the doorjamb, I eye her speculatively. Her color is much better now that’s she gotten some rest. Hell, she’s been sleeping for nearly fourteen hours.

  “I had to put them on because you had another episode when you were asleep.” I’d wrapped cloth around where I’d bound her to prevent additional injuries. I hated keeping her restrained, but I couldn’t have her hurting herself more in her sleep.

  Her jaw visibly tenses, and her gaze rakes over my face before darting around the room like she’s searching for something. The instant her eyes zero on the sharps container before drifting over to the syringes filled with antibiotics and others with sedatives, her body goes utterly still.

  Her gaze returns to me, her nostrils flaring. “What the hell did you give me?”

  I hold up a hand. “Calm down. I only gave you another dose of antibiotics.”

  She looks cagey as hell, her eyes darting around as though she’s attempting to devise an escape even while restrained. Then her gaze locks on me with a glare that’s so frigid it’s practically glacial. “Why didn’t you just kill me earlier?”

  I avoid answering because it’s how I’ve operated all these years—to hell with any agreement I have with the fucking Dixie
Mafia.

  Except I’ve never come across anyone like her before, nor have I ever found myself in a situation like this.

  At my lack of response, she switches gears. “What’re you planning to do with me?”

  I lift a shoulder a fraction. “Getting you healed first is top priority.”

  She squints at me, distrust rolling off her in thick waves. “So, you heal people now before you kill them? Is this just another one of your torture methods?”

  “The restraints were to prevent you from injuring yourself when you started getting agitated.”

  Appearing to mull over my response, she eyes me speculatively. “And just what the hell am I wearing?”

  “A shirt.”

  Exasperation lines her features, and she flattens her lips as if trying to maintain patience. “I mean, what am I wearing, as in, where is my shirt?”

  “I had to give you a sponge bath and change your bandage.” Bracing a hand against the opposite side of the doorjamb, I lift a shoulder in a faint shrug. “Figured you wouldn’t want to stay in the one you were in. It was bloody and dirty. Too much risk of infection for your wound. I put you in something with more room to move.” I pause and watch her bristle with unease. “One of my shirts.”

  She looks like she doesn’t know what to make of that information and just stares at me for a beat. Then her eyes glitter angrily at me. “So, you were suddenly concerned about what I was wearing and whether I was properly bathed after you had me strapped to a chair and slapped the shit out of me?” Heavy sarcasm lines her tone.

  “I wasn’t actually slapping the shit out of you.”

  Kate looks like she might be grinding her teeth.

  “I was going easy on you, if you want the truth.”

  “Right.” Incredulity bleeds through her voice, and I stifle the urge to smirk. Bantering with her is oddly satisfying and almost…fun.

  Her chin lifts, and I recognize it as an attempt to feign confidence when she’s uneasy as hell. “You shouldn’t have bothered yourself with changing my clothes.”

  Continuing to watch her curiously, I tip my head to the side. “I don’t see what the big deal is with me changing your clothes. Correct me if I’m wrong, but we did have sex, and I did see your naked body, right?”

  She fixes me with a dark glare. “Not the point. I just find it hard to believe you’re suddenly concerned for me and my well-being after you had me strapped to the goddamn chair.”

  I greet her words with silence and wait to see if she’ll try to fill it, but she surprises me when she doesn’t. She simply waits me out.

  “We need to talk first and determine where we go from here.”

  “Talk first,” she repeats slowly as if she misunderstood me. Her fingers flex like she’s riddled with agitation, and I know why.

  It’s because I’ve never been known to talk with my victims before killing them.

  Her eyes dart around the room, likely assessing every single place she’s hiding a weapon. The gun on the magnet mount beneath the metal bed frame is closest. Once she’s out of the restraints, she’d be smart to go for that first. Then there’s one mounted along the side of the dresser that faces the wall.

  And those are only the guns in this room.

  “Yeah. Talk.”

  Her brows pinch together, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Is this some sort of trick?”

  “No trick.” I keep my voice low and calm while I approach the bed and gently unfasten the first restraint around her left ankle.

  Once she’s free of the remaining restraints, she gingerly stretches before slowly sitting upright, tugging at the bottom hem of the large cotton shirt engulfing her body.

  The sight of my T-shirt covering her naked body incites a riot of unfamiliar emotions within me. Possessiveness. Lust. Need. Protectiveness. And all of it’s dangerous as fuck. I can’t let emotions rule me.

  I sense the moment she plans to go for it. In fact, I’d have been disappointed as hell if she didn’t.

  In a flash of movement, she slips off the mattress and grabs the weapon stashed beneath the bed, pointing it at me. Her legs are shaky, but she surprises me by her steady aim, arms outstretched even though I know the movement and the position is painful as hell for her right shoulder. It’s evident by her tense features and the lines bracketing her mouth, which presses into a firm, thin line.

  “What the fuck kind of game are you playing?” she demands.

  Calmly, I hold her gaze. “Not playing any game.”

  Her eyes and tone exude irritation, but vulnerability ekes past her expression. “Why haven’t you already killed me?”

  “Because your endgame’s similar to mine.” I lift my chin, gesturing to the gun still trained on me. “Let’s be honest. Do you really think I’d leave a loaded gun for you to find?”

  She goes immediately still, and panic bleeds into her expression. At the last minute, she shifts her aim a fraction and pulls the trigger, the ominous click of a gun with no ammunition echoing within the small room.

  I advance on her, my fingers cinching her waist, guiding her back against the wall to ensure she doesn’t injure herself more. Visible tremors course through her body, her nostrils flaring and lips parted as her breaths come out in harsh pants. The gun falls from her grip, tumbling to the floor, and she stares at me as if expecting me to do my worst.

  Her fear is as palpable as her helplessness. She’s not used to being bested, and I can commiserate. I will her to see the truth in my eyes. That I have no intention of killing her. There’s no fucking way I could kill the woman who makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years.

  “Get back in bed so we can talk.”

  Her eyes search my features, her chest rising and falling with quick, anxious breaths, and the need to try to set her at ease barrels through me. Slowly, cautiously, I release one wrist and reach for her face. The instant my palm cups her cheek, she flinches. I grit my teeth against the sting of rejection even though her reaction is warranted.

  My voice is hushed when I repeat, “We need to talk, and you need to take it easy. Get back in bed, Kate.” Then I’m compelled to tack on a word that feels foreign against my lips, one I so rarely use. Lowering my voice to barely above a whisper, I add, “Please.”

  Something indecipherable flares in her eyes, and an edginess takes hold of me as I wait for her answer.

  When she offers a nearly perceptible nod, relief courses through me, and I turn to help her get back into bed. Once she’s propped up on pillows and pulls the comforter over her, I ease myself down at the foot of the bed.

  Kate fidgets with the edge of the comforter for a beat before raising her eyes to mine, unease lining her face. “So. What do we talk about?”

  I call for Kujo, and when he comes trotting in, I pat the spot beside me, near Kate’s feet, and he climbs up and settles in. I gauge her reaction, satisfied when her eyes soften and the stiff way she holds herself subsides a fraction.

  “How about we start with how you disappeared?”

  44

  Caitlin/Kate

  Over Seven Years Ago

  Go to the docks at dark. Undocumented stowaways travel in the freight containers. It’s two grand for passage. They’ll try to charge more. Don’t give in. Keep your head down and downplay your appearance.

  Doc Hogue’s note had been concise and his meaning clear, the tightly banded money the exact amount I’d need for passage. For the first time in my life, I was grateful for my lack of curves and small breasts.

  The time spent inside that container was some of the hardest I’ve endured. I was supplied with a bucket for me to use the bathroom, a case of bottled water, and a small box filled with apples and carrots. My main saving grace was that I was alone, and I found it ironic that I was using this as a passage out of this country while countless others used it to get in.

  Conditions in the enormous metal box were filthy, but I made do, grateful to have my pack filled with supplies. The inside of the container grew f
rigid, and when the seas became rough, the odor became increasingly rank when my bucket tipped over in the corner on the opposite end, sending my urine and feces spilling out.

  I stopped trying to track the days, instead choosing to let my mind wander to thoughts of where I might end up. Fear and hope battled within me, each vying to take hold the entire journey.

  We first docked in Antwerp, Belgium. When the door had creaked open, I’d barely had a chance to catch my first breath of fresh air before a man waved at me impatiently, hissing for me to hurry and exit.

  I nearly had to sprint to keep up with him as he hustled me over to a new container. I’d asked him where this one would lead, and he’d glared at me, his irritation obvious, but answered me. The next stop would be in Yemen. Then my final stop would be Bangkok Port, Thailand.

  It seemed to take forever, but I knew I couldn’t let the solitude or harsh conditions wear me down. I had to devise a plan. Once I landed in Thailand, I’d need to learn the ways of the country in order to gain the information I needed.

  Eventually, I found a haven in Talat Chaiya. It took me walking on foot and intermittently hitching rides before I made it to my destination. This is where I found my instructor who was nearly as stubborn as me.

  He hadn’t wanted to take me on as a student. Taking advantage of my most rudimentary skills of speaking Pak Thai, he stonewalled me for weeks. But I never gave up. He’d been the man the locals recommended; they’d been unable to stifle the revere in their voices at the mention of his name.

  I needed him to teach me. I needed the best of the best. This was the only way.