by Tasha Black
Was the same thing bound to happen to West as well? Was Mallory going to try and get him to give up his prosthetic limbs for fear that it might happen?
West had awoken after the accident with his prosthetics in place. Unlike most amputees, he had never taken them off. All of which meant, he literally could not imagine what it would be like to live with only what would be left of his original body.
Dalton froze, and West turned. Then he heard it too.
They jogged around the corner to find a couple members of the Aryan Dawn gang, scuffling in an alley.
Shockingly, though, it was the skinheads who were getting their asses handed to them this time.
A little guy with a swastika tattooed on his neck was being brutally smashed with a baseball bat by a guy West didn’t recognize. The bat had a white power symbol on it, clearly the attacker had taken it from one of the skinheads.
The second attacker had a scruffy beard, broken up by a thin scar along his jawline. He was pummeling another skinhead, no bat needed.
The third was kicking the last skinhead, who was already on the ground.
Dalton broke off to flank them from the other side of the alleyway.
West strode into the fray. He knew the gang members were on the right side of this beat down, but it was getting brutal. Someone was going to get killed.
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice echoing off the walls of the surrounding buildings.
The three attackers turned to West.
As soon as they were distracted, the skinheads scrambled away into the night.
The strangers approached.
It was clear to West by the way they carried themselves that they were trained fighters. He would need to be careful.
The one with the bat was the closest to him. He was already coming after West, swinging hard.
West was easily able to dodge, but the guy wasn’t leaving him any opening to grab the bat and drag him in for the knock out.
Dalton slipped up behind the kicker, and choked him out before anyone but West even knew he was there. God, that man was quiet when he wanted to be. Scarily so.
Baseball bat noticed Dalton and let his next swing hang there for an extra fraction of a second.
That was all West needed. He grabbed the bat and spun under, disarming the man and taking out his knee in the process.
He kept rotating, using his momentum to take a swing at the last guy, the one with the scar. The bat whistled through the air with the force of the strike.
Scar Beard held up a hand and caught the bat in mid air.
Impossible.
West had been holding back, he didn’t want to kill the guy, but still…
They froze, sizing each other up.
West pulled the at the bat, but it didn’t move. The man gripped it tightly. He was strong. Maybe even as strong as West.
Impossible.
The guy was cool as could be. His eyes were dark. Emotionless. Like a shark.
West tried using his leverage to move the man off balance.
Instead, the bat snapped in half.
The scream of nearby sirens interrupted the intense moment between them.
The two pieces of the bat hit the ground with matching clatters as the men ran off - the strangers in one direction, West and Dalton in the other.
When they had traveled several blocks, West slowed to a walk.
“What the hell was going on there?” Dalton asked immediately.
“These guys weren’t like the others,” West told him. “They weren’t afraid. Their moves were solid, practiced. And the last guy was super strong.”
“As strong as you?” Dalton asked.
“Maybe,” West admitted.
“That’s not good,” Dalton said, not even winded from the frantic run. “The other night, when we broke up that delivery, there was something about the guys in the van. They were using what looked like military formations. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now I’m not so sure.”
West stopped and turned to his friend.
“What do you think we’re up against? Could they be from the zoo? From project Cerberus?”
Dalton shook his head.
“It crossed my mind. I wasn’t close enough to get a read on the ones in the van. But these guys definitely didn’t match up. They were too calm under pressure, for one. And they didn’t have the right scent, either.”
“The streets have been rumbling with rumors about a new group of players in town for months now,” West mused. “I think we just found them.”
A clap of thunder sounded the beginning of a storm.
The two men walked the rest of the way to the car in silence.
6
Cordelia sat on a bench in front of Worthington Enterprises, a book open on her iPad instead of the usual calendar. The beauty of the morning made it impossible to concentrate on her reading, though.
Last night’s storm had cleared the fog of humidity from the city, so the air was clear. The glassy buildings seemed to glisten all the way up to where they pierced the blue sky with their spires.
The street vendor nearby was selling fragrant Ukrainian coffee. Cordelia had half a mind to grab a cup. The man sold it with cream and sugar, barely stirred so that the last sip was always the sweetest. It reminded her of her early days working here, before West elevated her status to the point that he bought her coffee at the upscale cafe down the street.
West.
The note in Peter’s schedule had simply said that this meeting was regarding funding. When Peter had asked her to accompany him today, her stomach immediately tied itself in knots over the prospect of seeing West.
So when he asked her to wait out here instead of coming inside, she was more than happy to oblige. It was thoughtful of Peter to consider her feelings.
“Good morning, Miss Cross,” a familiar voice said.
She turned to see Jack McSweeney, the elderly gentleman who had replaced Dalton as lead security and driver in the spring.
He was coming around the car to open the door of the car.
West’s car.
Cordelia froze for a moment in confusion.
She had assumed Peter was meeting with West. And that this was why he wanted her to wait. If that wasn’t the case, why didn’t he want her in the meeting?
But there was no time to think about it, or even to run away.
West stepped out of the car, leaning on his cane for support. She knew it was just for show, but he really did a good job selling it.
Cordelia’s world slid into slow motion.
West straightened, and looked up at the building that bore his name. He was so big, so tall. She had nearly forgotten the size of him.
His jaw was tight and he looked tired. But somehow the tension only enhanced his good looks.
She felt the familiar pull she always felt when he was near, like two celestial bodies, caught in each other’s orbit.
No, Cordelia. It’s not like that. It probably was never like that, for him.
McSweeney leaned in to tell him something quietly. Then he looked up quickly, right at her.
The frank interest in his gaze shot through her. She was pinned to the bench like a butterfly on a collector’s board.
“Hey, Cord,” he said softly, approaching her. His voice strummed chords in her heart.
“Hi,” she said, wishing she had the will power to just walk away.
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” he asked her.
She looked up to see him smiling crookedly down at her, his dark eyes crinkling.
“Yes, it is a nice day,” she admitted before she could stop herself.
He glanced over at the coffee vendor, then back to her.
“I guess the storm cleared the air,” he said.
He was looking at the coffee vendor again, the hand not holding the cane extended slightly in that direction, like he was about to point something out to her. Maybe offer to get her a cup.
“Do you have any
news on Sean Cooper?” she asked him.
West looked at her, puzzled.
7
“I’m sorry. What was that?” West asked.
He’d missed what Cordelia said because he was using his upgraded hearing to listen to the two guys with the shaved heads and bomber jackets hanging out by the coffee vendor. One had a white power tattoo on his hand.
Why did this have to happen during the first moment he’d had alone with Cordelia since that awful night?
He should be coming out any minute. Just stick to the plan, and make it look convincing, Tattoo said.
Shit.
Something was about to go down, right here in downtown Glacier City, in the middle of the day.
Unbelievable.
West’s thoughts went straight to Cordelia. He needed to get her out of here, fast.
“Sean Cooper?” she was saying. “I heard about what happened.”
“Yeah. That’s a real shame,” he replied, trying to keep an ear on the men by the coffee stand. They were getting fidgety.
How much time did he have to get her to safety?
“How’s Mallory dealing with it?” she asked.
He seized the opening to get her out of here.
“Everything’s on hold,” he told her quickly. “Mallory is kind of a mess. You should go talk to her. Right now.”
“I think my clearance has been revoked,” Cordelia replied, deadpan.
Shit.
He heard the footsteps as two men approached.
He couldn’t do anything to stop them. Not with so many people watching.
“Do you want to come with me to get some coffee?” he asked in a last-ditch effort to get her out of danger.
She looked up at him, confused. Of course she was. He was all over the place. He probably sounded crazy.
Movement in his periphery caught his attention just as he heard the men quicken their steps.
Peter.
His one-time friend was emerging from Worthington Enterprises.
What was he doing here without West’s knowledge?
No time to think about it.
The two men were moving faster now.
Could Peter be the target?
“I think I need to go,” Cordelia said, relief in her voice as she stood to go to Peter.
Though his heart was clenching at the thought of her running to Peter, West put the feelings aside and cinched up on his cane.
West figured he could take at least one of them out that way. He’d make it look clumsy, make sure he took a few lumps.
But what about the other one?
He glanced at McSweeney. The older man was leaning on the car, looking up at the buildings.
Why in the hell did Dalton even hire this guy?
Peter spotted West and Cordelia, and walked toward them.
Toward the threat.
No, no, no.
“Westley Worthington. I heard a rumor that you worked here,” Peter said with a tight smile.
“From time to time,” West allowed, with a tense smile of his own.
The two men stepped into view. One reached into his pocket. West remembered tackling that shoplifter through the window when he’d only been reaching for a lighter. He didn’t want to be overzealous again. He waited, resting his cane on his shoulder, so that he could use it if he needed to.
Tattoo Man pulled out a folded tactical knife. The other stood beside him, his hands in pockets.
“You that guy trying to clean up the streets?” Tattoo guy asked.
West froze. How could they know?
“That’s me,” Peter said.
Realization dawned on West. They didn’t mean him. They meant Peter, of course - and his new city consulting job. He’d made Glacier City’s growing crime a top priority. He’d been working with the mayor on all sorts of new initiatives to make the city safer.
“Well, we’ve got a little message for you to take back to the mayor,” Tattoo said.
He flicked the knife open. The polished blade caught the sun.
If he took one more step, West would be able to bring the cane down and break his wrist.
“You tell him the streets are just fine the way they are. And our boss says…”
Tattoo’s words become inarticulate gurgles.
He seized up and fell to the ground.
McSweeney stood behind him, a taser in his hand.
The second skinhead pulled his hands from his pockets, brass knuckles adorning one fist.
He took a swing at McSweeney.
West wasn’t fast enough to stop him before he reached the older man.
It didn’t matter.
McSweeney dropped the taser and rolled with the punch, catching the man’s arm and executing a perfect judo throw.
The attacker’s combat boots flew through the air as he sailed over the older man’s shoulder and came to rest with a resonating crunch on the hood of West’s car.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
“Sorry about the car, Mr. Worthington,” McSweeney offered politely.
“No problem,” West replied. “I think that will buff right out.”
Peter looked at the man who had just saved him, a look of barely restrained anger crossing his features before being replaced with Peter’s winning smile.
The look was there and gone so fast, West couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it altogether.
It was probably just the shock of the whole situation. Peter had never been good at confrontations.
The wail of sirens filled the air. Could the police already be on the way?
A news van pulled up before West had time to think it over.
A reporter dashed out of the car, bypassing the commotion and heading straight toward Peter, mic in hand. A cameraman followed.
“Mr. Watson, we’ve had reports of a violent attack. Would you be willing to say a few words to the people of Glacier City?” the reporter asked breathlessly.
Peter nodded sagely.
“Sure. Cordelia, please join me,” he said, gesturing to Cord as he moved in front of the fountain for a cleaner shot.
She scurried over obligingly and West somehow couldn’t stop looking, even when he saw Peter’s arm go around her shoulder.
“We’re ready Mr. Watson,” the reporter said.
Peter nodded.
“And three, two, one,” the camera man said.
The reporter wore a concerned expression.
“I’m Patricia Martinez, here with Mr. Peter Watson, city consultant and philanthropist, at the Worthington Enterprises building in downtown Glacier City. Mr. Watson, is it true that you were just assaulted?”
“Yes, Patricia, I was,” Peter began, then paused dramatically.
West couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching a performance.
“Do you know why you were targeted in this assault?” the reporter asked gamely.
“First, I would like to say how terrifying it was to be attacked in broad daylight. The criminals in this town are becoming more brazen, Patricia, as too many citizens are already aware, first-hand. These criminals think they own the streets. Well, guess what? The streets belong to the good people of Glacier City, and they deserve to be able to walk them without fear. Whether it’s the old breed of criminal, or the new.”
Another dramatic pause.
“The increase in crime has even inspired some sort of vigilante. This is not what Glacier City needs. We need law enforcement on the streets to protect us. Officers we can trust,” Peter continued, really getting into the speechifying. “Not another hothead who thinks he is above the law.”
West had heard enough.
He walked back to the car and over to McSweeney, who was finishing up his report to the cops.
“Thank you, Mr. McSweeney,” one officer said, extending a hand.
“Thank you, son,” McSweeney said gruffly as he shook the officer’s hand. “Appreciate your service.”
The two policemen walked back to
their car, leaving West alone with the old man.
“That was a hell of a throw. Jack, is it?” West asked.
“Yes, sir,” he replied with a warm smile. “I studied some judo when I was stationed in Japan. I got lucky.”
“I have a feeling you’re being modest. Those Aryan Dawn types can be a rough bunch,” West said. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“Yes sir, they can at that,” McSweeney allowed. “If any of them had been here, it might have been a different story.”
“What do you mean?” West asked, confused.
“Take a look at that guy,” McSweeney said, jutting his chin toward the tattooed man the police were putting into the back of a patrol car. “What do you see?”
“Just a typical skinhead punk,” West replied.
“Uh huh. Now look again. Closely. See how his head still has razor-burn on the back? He doesn’t shave it often. And what can you tell me about his jacket?”
West followed the older man’s lead.
“It looks brand new. Not broken in at all. Right from the store. Like his knife,” West said, the truth dawning on him.
“Even the patches on the back are perfectly straight. Tailored,” McSweeney added. “Not sewn on with dental floss by some hopped up meth head.”
West let his eyes shift to infrared, looking for more details.
“The tattoo,” he said. “It’s not real. Just an ink drawing.”
“Good eye,” McSweeney said.
“So they just wanted us to think they were skinheads. Why would anyone do that?” West wondered out loud.
“None of my business,” McSweeney said. “But I’ll tell you what. I don’t like the idea of Miss Cross being put in harm’s way like that.”
West decided that Dalton had been right on the money when he’d hired Jack McSweeney after all.
“Neither do I,” he agreed.
8
Sterling flipped through the file again and resisted the urge to go make a third cup of coffee.
It was impossible to concentrate on these case studies.
Constantine Panchenko was coming to pay her a visit.
She’d received a message yesterday that he wanted to check on progress.
Personally.
That wasn’t a good sign. And she wondered if he suspected what she already knew.
