The Dragon (G.O.N.Y. - Double Dragon)

by Dubrinsky, Violette

  “This is fucking bullshit!” Bastian hissed. He was moving off when Ramsey gripped his arm, halting him. Standing so close, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, only someone observing them from behind would be able to tell there was any tension between the brothers. “Get off of me!”

  “It’s your uncle’s funeral, Bastian,” Ramsey murmured slowly, leaning closer to his brother to ensure he heard. “Show some respect.”

  Bastian growled at him. “Respect would be finding the fucker who’s targeting us and—fuck!” His words were cut off on a pained groan as Ramsey dug his thumb into his arm.

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  His brother jerked away, causing a few of the attendees around them, mostly male family members, to turn in Bastian’s direction. Ramsey turned to face him as well.

  After Lily’s death, Bastian had changed. Ramsey expected it. He’d expected sadness, depression, anger; he’d expected his brother to bury himself in the bottle, in female flesh, he’d expected many things, but Ramsey hadn’t expected sobriety. From the moment Bastian had showed up at Lily’s bedside to now, Ramsey doubted his brother had had one drink. While that was commendable, sober Bastian was unpredictable. Alcoholic, uncaring Bastian could be handled with a bit of pressure and brute force, but he could be handled. This man, Ramsey didn’t know. He was brash, quick to anger, and didn’t cower or balk at authority. This man was dangerous.

  For the span of seconds, Bastian didn’t speak. He just stood there, his body tense as he stared at Ramsey from behind those tinted glasses. Around him, Ramsey felt the crowd shift.

  “Ashes to ashes…” the priest was saying. He turned back to the casket to see his aunt and cousins huddled together before the deep rectangular hole. “Dust to dust…” The sound of dirt hitting the casket touched his ear.

  As they moved away, Hannah and Titus approached. His mother held a single red rose, his uncle a handful of dirt. Ramsey trailed them, reaching into the container with loose dirt just inches from Pat’s burial site and capturing some in his fist. He approached and tossed the contents onto the casket.

  Heading toward his aunt and cousins to deliver his final condolences, Ramsey grit his teeth when someone, Bastian, caught his arm, halting him. In a low, forceful voice, his brother spoke, “You may be the head of this family—”

  “I said,” Ramsey began again, this time turning to give him a slight frown. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “My daughter’s dead and now Uncle Pat—”

  “Look around, Bastian.” He continued walking, forcing his brother to release him and fall into step. “Do you see those black vans?” He indicated the two black vans with tinted windows that had been parked on the street closest to his uncle’s burial plot. They were both of the same make, but had different logos. One presented as a flower delivery service; the other as gravesite cleaning. From the moment they’d arrived at the private cemetery, just over half an hour ago, Ramsey had seen no one go into or come out of the van, which was peculiar if someone was dropping off flowers or cleaning a gravesite. Vince noticed it too, and like Ramsey, knew what was happening.

  “Yes.”

  “Say hello to the FBI.” He slowed and halted, looking between the two vans. “I’m sure they can hear you.” They now had devices that, when attached to an undercover agent in close enough vicinity, recorded entire conversations. Many men had seen their downfall based on this particular tactic. Ramsey wasn’t going to be one of them.

  “What?” Bastian froze before swearing under his breath. “Bastards…even at a fucking funeral!”

  Ramsey agreed, but didn’t voice it. Instead, he continued over to his aunt and his cousins. He hadn’t fired the bullet that killed Pat. Pat had either done that himself or one of his associates had gotten to him before Ramsey. The reports were inconclusive on whether it was a suicide or murder since Pat’s body had been recovered from the Hudson. His cause of death: drowning. Still, Ramsey was genuinely sorry for their loss. Barring greed and where it led him, Pat had been a decent man, the most decent of his uncles anyway.

  Ten minutes later, Ramsey drove from the cemetery. Hannah sat in the front seat, staring ahead. As was expected, Pat’s death had saddened his mother even more. She’d lost a granddaughter and a brother all in the span of weeks. From what Ramsey had observed, Hannah and Pat were the closest of the siblings. She’d barely spoken to the rest, and even Titus, who was closer to her age, had often gotten her cold shoulder. Ramsey had contemplated Hannah when deciding whether he should go through with the hit on Pat, but in the end, he knew there was no other way. He could forgive Pat’s disobeying his orders to remain in legal enterprises. There were other, more debilitating ways to punish greed; he could have taken his wealth, cut off his air supply without touching him physically, but Pat had gone to the feds. There was no coming back from that.

  “Ramsey?”

  He briefly turned to his mother before refocusing his attention on the road. “Omma?”

  “Did he suffer?”

  It was a strange question to ask someone who wasn’t involved in the murder. Ramsey answered anyway, “I don’t think so, omma. The toxicology report said there was no struggle.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her black, meshed, hat bob a few times. “I know what the toxicology reports said, Ramsey, but you still haven’t answered my question.” She drew a breath. “Did he suffer?”

  “I wouldn’t know—”

  “I’m not stupid, Ramsey. I’ve never been stupid nor have I pretended to be. My brother was many things, but suicidal wasn’t one of them.” She never raised her voice. “So, did he suffer or not?”

  Shaking his head, Ramsey answered, “I’ve never thought you were stupid, omma. As to whether Pat suffered, I don’t know.”

  “Who does?”

  Ramsey contemplated lying, denying any and all knowledge of Pat’s end, but his mother had always been involved in the family business. Traditionally, women were protected from these things, thought to be too delicate to stomach the details, but Hannah always knew. It had baffled him when he was younger, until his grandfather patted his head and explained that Hannah always kept ahead of them. “Possibly the Italians.”

  “Ah,” she muttered. “Drugs?”

  “Women.”

  “Whores.” Hannah laughed dryly. “Appa always said greed would be his downfall. He was never content…always wanted more…”

  As she brought up his grandfather in a discussion about his uncle, Ramsey remembered his promise. Between his handling the leads that were slowly but surely revealing those involved in his niece’s death, fending off the FBI, and dealing with Pat’s demise, he’d barely seen his mother and hadn’t gotten around to telling her.

  “A few days before Pat’s accident, I visited him.”

  “About?”

  Ramsey ignored the question. His mother didn’t need to know those details. “He told me to tell you that you were right.”

  “I was right?”

  He navigated his way to the back of his building and into the underground parking lot. “That the old man had something to do with it. He said you’d understand.”

  It took a few minutes to reach his parking space, and in that time, Hannah remained silent. In fact, if not for her easy breaths, Ramsey would think he was alone. Putting the truck into park, he turned to her, but she was staring ahead, her face an impassive mask.

  “Omma?”

  She started and blinked before turning to face him. Almost instantly, her face relaxed and she offered him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Life’s ironic, isn’t it?”

  Ramsey lifted a brow.

  She laughed low, clutching her purse tight against her leg.

  “Are you okay?” His mother had had a few health scares, but she’d had successful treatments for all of them.

  “As well as I could be considering I just buried my brother.” With that, she gave him a smile, opened the door and climbed down. He did the same, walking h
er the short distance to the elevator. “Are you coming up?”

  Ramsey shook his head. Hannah frowned. “Have you eaten?”

  “I’ll pick something up on my way to the spa.”

  She shook her head in disapproval, but eventually sighed. “All work and no play, Ramsey.”

  Once he saw her onto the elevator, Ramsey made his way back to his truck. He acknowledged Otis, who walked past him to the elevator. He would stay with Hannah while Grant followed Ramsey. After Jezebel breached his apartment, Ramsey acknowledged his own fault and revamped the system. The only reason Jezebel had gotten into his living room was because he’d never anticipated her showing up to his apartment, and hadn’t mentioned to building security that she was not welcome. The shadows had been on patrol—Otis in the garage and Grant assessing the staircases leading to his suite—when Jezebel slipped into his apartment. Now, Grant and Otis had company. He’d brought in two more shadows whose sole jobs were to guard his apartment. They patrolled.

  Back in his truck, he called Vince. Two rings later, his cousin answered, sounded as if he had something in his mouth.

  “Did they bring him in?” In a week and some days, Ramsey had made considerable progress in learning who was trying to cripple him. They’d gone through numerous people before they’d landed a name that gave Ramsey some pleasure: Lee Woon-Ha. The Lees were part of a Korean American street gang that had broken off from, but still had ties to, the Hwan Song Sung Pa or the H.S.S. Mob. It was currently led by Chang Chul-Moo. Considering Chang had given him such a hard time in Seoul, Ramsey had already made the connection. He just needed it confirmed.

  “Yea, he’s here. Should I start without you?”

  Staring at his hands, Ramsey nodded. “Start, but don’t finish.” Vince was good at what he did, but at times, he got carried away.

  He heard the wrinkling of foil. “Yea.”

  Ramsey paused for the span of three breaths. “Anything else?”

  Vince’s answer was immediate. “No.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Sarah left with Bastian about five minutes after you. I think they went home.”

  He scowled. His cousin had never been slow, but Ramsey was noticing a pattern of late, a pattern he’d have to check if it continued. “Where’s Jezebel?”

  There was more rustling and when Vince spoke again, it was clear he was eating something. “Wit-Sec.”

  “I know that,” he bit out. Days after their “visit” and under the cover of dark, Jezebel had been picked up by a black van and driven to the federal courthouse. Since federal witness protection was run by US Marshalls, they’d taken it from there. “Where?”

  “State?” Ramsey didn’t respond. “Still working on it.”

  “You were supposed to have it by today.”

  “The chips are scrambling.” The chips he referred to were the tracking devices attached directly to Jezebel’s brand new travelling suitcases by an agent in Ramsey’s pocket. “They probably have some type of firewall in place. I’ll have to overwrite it first.”

  “How long?”

  “Few hours if it’s weak, days if it’s the good stuff. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

  “You do that.”

  He hung up.

  ***

  Dressed in a hospital gown and lying on the bed, waiting for her doctor, Jezebel was transported back in time.

  She’d been ten and Delilah had fallen down the stairs, a result of Ilyana’s spilling juice on the staircase and being too high to wipe it up. In the hospital room with her sister as the doctors set and wrapped her arm, Jezebel had told her to be brave. To an eight year old, that meant nothing, and Delilah had whimpered and cried softly despite the anesthetic. Feeling helpless, Jezebel had made up a story about a princess who fell out of a window and broke her arm. At that time, they’d both been into Disney princesses, Delilah a bit more since she’d kept her innocence longer. As she told her the story of the brown-skinned princess who cried briefly before setting her own arm, her sister had calmed and relaxed. When she’d told her to be brave after that, Delilah had bobbed her little head and given her a tremulous smile.

  Turning her head to the side, Jezebel felt a tear leak across the bridge of her nose and move along her cheek. She wished someone was here to tell her to be brave, though bravery in this instance could have one of two meanings.

  “Ms. Jamison?”

  When she didn’t answer, the doctor, Dr. Emilia Hassad, came to stand directly above her. The middle-aged woman gave her a comforting smile.

  “Ms. Jamison, if you’re having second thoughts about this...”

  Jezebel shook her head and sniffled. “No. I’m fine.” She’d forgotten she was Ursula Jamison, because she was unaccustomed to using the name. Along with Delilah, who refused to let her go into the program alone, she’d arrived in Maryland almost two weeks ago. Her mother had refused to leave her home, and there had been no persuading her, so Jezebel and Delilah left her.

  Dr. Hassad nodded. “I’ll give you a few moments to get yourself together and then I’ll return.” She moved away before returning with a box of tissues. “Would you like me to get your husband?”

  Her “husband” Matthew Jamison, was none other than Agent Brandon Erickson, who’d been assigned to her protection detail. There were others, three U.S. Marshalls, who were “cousins” visiting them. Brandon had escorted her to the clinic today. Delilah was scheduled to come but at the last minute, her sister hugged her and told her it was probably best that she stayed home. Delilah didn’t approve and Jezebel understood.

  “No, that’s fine, thank you.”

  The doctor nodded. “You know, there are options other than abortion...”

  As she listed them, Jezebel went into her mind again. It had come to this. What kind of life could she offer a child while her own life was in danger? She was in a federal witness protection program for crying out loud!

  After her last visit with Ramsey, Jezebel decided she had little choice. She didn’t want to give up her current life for the unknown, but the more she thought of it, the more she realized that she had only one true option, and that was the protection being offered by the U.S. government. While she still believed they had ulterior motives, maybe they hoped she’d testify against Ramsey or had knowledge about Ramsey’s criminal activities, they’d not only given her credible information, but were offering to protect her and her family from a very real threat.

  She’d lost her identity. Jezebel Grace Carter no longer existed. Even her business was no longer her own. All of her IDs had another name, another woman, a woman who feared for her life because she’d trusted and loved the wrong man, a dangerous man, a man whose enemies weren’t above killing innocent children.

  Jezebel thought Kirk had damaged her, but he’d done little in comparison to Ramsey. She was a strong woman, had always been, but Ramsey Stone broke her. Even lying here, about to remove a child who’d done nothing but exist, Jezebel felt herself shattering further.

  When she focused again, the doctor was gone. Pushing onto her elbows, she reached for the paper cup with water just a hand reach away. Taking small sips, she put it back and lie back, resolved.

  This was no place for a baby. When the U.S. Marshalls had briefed her on the program, they’d told her that it involved a lot of travelling. The point of Witness Protection was to keep ahead of the danger, which meant, she’d never stay in one place for more than a few months, sometimes weeks. Right now, when she was just over three months pregnant, and had no symptoms of it except for the morning sickness, that was all dandy. But when she started showing, when she grew large enough that they were unable to move her, she’d be putting her baby at risk. And when the child was born…what then? Live the rest of her life in Witness Protection for fear that someone would discover she’d had a child by Kang Jae Ramsey Stone, the head of Double Dragon, and come after them?

  She didn’t think so.

  Jezebel heard the door open and turned to look
at Dr. Hassad.

  Before the doctor could say anything else, she sighed, nodded and closed her eyes. “I’m ready, Dr. Hassad.”

  ***

  “You can’t do this! I’m under the protection of—”

  The words started out forceful, but ended on a pained cough when Vince rammed his fist into the bound man’s belly. As he removed his hand, four indentations were visible on the man’s pale skin. Soon, they began to bleed, a result of Vince’s sharp-tipped brass knuckles.

  From where he sat, a few feet away from the man, Ramsey smiled and shook his head. “Wrong answer.”

  They were in the meatpacking factory. Again. He’d lost count on how many times he’d been here in the past months, but Ramsey didn’t care. He was on a mission.

  “I’m going to ask you again, Lee, and this time, Vince isn’t going to be as…nice.”

  Lee Ji-Wook was either the third or fourth Lee that Ramsey had brought to the factory. His “interview” with Lee Woon-Ha had gone well, and while he’d claimed no knowledge, he’d given a name. That name had given a name and now, here he was with Lee Ji-Wook, a man who put too much emphasis on his appearance. When he’d first been brought to the factory, his hair had been blonde, professionally colored, straightened and possibly gelled or sprayed or whatever it was people did to get it to lie a certain way. An hour alone with Vince had ruined that, and now, it fell limply around his face, a result of being held under water.

  “I told you! I don’t know anything about that…anything!”

  Ramsey nodded. “Someone murdered my niece. Someone obviously wanted to make me angry, and it looks like that someone is you.”

  He shook his head frantically. “No. Not me.”

  “Then who?”

  “I don’t know!” He looked at Vince warily, who stood before him, adjusting his brass knuckles and waiting on Ramsey’s orders. He was dressed the part, shirtless, his dragon tattoo rising up from between his shoulder blades. “I swear…look...nobody in my group put a hit on a little girl. I’d know.”